


Smitten

by eilonwy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: dramione_remix, Deception, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, HP: EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Holidays, Humor, Love Potion/Spell, Magical Artifacts, Remix, Romance, Spells & Enchantments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:07:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The plan had seemed perfect. Foolproof, in fact. But Draco should have remembered what is so often said about the best-laid plans.</p><p>Written for Round 2 of the Dramione Couples Remix on LJ.  My chosen couple were Oberon and Titania, from Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Part One

 

 

 

 

21 January 1999  
Thursday evening

 

How the hell he’d allowed himself to be talked into returning to this godsforsaken place, he would never know. A moment of insanity. It must have been that, surely. Because there had not been one single second, since the day he’d set foot in these old halls again, that he hadn’t regretted the decision.

It hadn’t mattered one whit that he’d been given the plum position of Head Boy. At least, it hadn’t mattered to _him_. His parents had been another story. “It will be an opportunity for you to redeem both yourself and the Malfoy name, Draco,” Lucius had said. “Show the entire wizarding world that we have changed, that we’ve accepted the new order and truly regret past… alliances.” “Besides,” his mother had added, “it’s an honour to be made Head Boy. You should be very pleased that Headmistress McGonagall has shown such faith in you, after all that has happened.”

Faith, his arse. And as for honour, what a joke. Far more of a punishment, considering the girl with whom he was being forced to share living quarters and duties. The wily old bat knew exactly what she was about and no mistake. 

Draco sighed deeply, sinking back into the plush cushions lining the sofa in the Heads’ sitting room and balefully eyeing the clock on the mantel. The second hand moved around its face with tedious predictability. Nine o’clock. She would be back from the library in precisely two hours. At least there was still a pocket of time in which to enjoy the peace and quiet before Miss Efficiency returned, bustling about with ridiculous energy and purpose and then diving back into the books once again. He squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. Just thinking about all that industry and earnestness gave him a headache.

Like clockwork, the door to the Heads’ suite swung open at eleven o’clock. Or rather…

“Late. And by two whole minutes, no less. Tsk.” He sighed and shook his head. “Standards, Granger. Yours are slipping.”

Hermione Granger, her arms full of books she hadn’t been able to stuff into her satchel, allowed herself a brief, exasperated roll of the eyes before pushing the door shut behind her with the heel of her foot and then dumping the books onto the study table in the corner of the room. This sort of pointless, juvenile sniping from Malfoy was hardly new. She’d spent the better part of the last seven years dealing with it. She’d hoped, learning that the two of them were to be Heads as eighth-years, following the war, that maybe he’d changed. But old habits died hard, apparently. She’d never suffered fools gladly, though, and this particular fool was still best dealt with by refusing to give him the satisfaction of a genuine response. 

Seating herself, she opened one of the larger books, flipping the pages until she’d found the one she wanted and settling in to read for a while. 

Draco let out a soft snort and shook his head again. Shame he hadn’t ever thought to get a bet going on just how long it took before Granger would go through the routine he’d observed virtually every single night since the start of term four and a half months earlier. Though really, such a bet would hardly be fair, considering he’d already calculated, from repeated, personal observation, that there were never more than three seconds from the time she would first seat herself until that first tap of her quill tip on a front tooth. The three-second rule. He could practically set his watch by it.

_Right. Now… put the nib of your quill just there… tap your tooth with it once or twice, that’s it… now bite down and gnaw on it a bit, there’s a good girl…_

Sensing his gaze, Hermione glanced up at last. “I’m sorry, Draco,” she murmured, all innocence, laying her quill down. “Did you say something?” 

Then, her mouth quirking in a tiny, self-satisfied smile, she returned her attention to the book.

The jumped-up bint had taken the wind out of a perfectly good barb. And what the fuck had she been smiling about? And finally– “ _Draco_ ”? She’d taken to calling him by his first name on a fairly regular basis, and such unwarranted and unwelcome intimacy was not to be borne.

“You do know, Granger,” Draco remarked pleasantly enough some time later, watching her move purposefully about the sitting room as she tidied up, “that there are house-elves to do what you’re doing now. And it’s tradition for the Heads to have their own assigned to them. They’re awfully frustrated, y’know, what with you refusing to honour the tradition all term. You’re hurting their little feelings, making them feel all unwanted and unimportant. One of them in particular. Tinker. He was to have been ours since September, y’know. Reckon he feels disgraced that he’s not been allowed to take his rightful place as the Heads’ house-elf.” He paused, and then, smirking, added, “Such a humiliation is really quite cruel of you.”

Hermione had continued clearing up for several minutes into Draco’s monologue, but about halfway through it, she stopped, standing stock still and listening, incredulous. When he’d finished, she folded her arms and spoke to him with an air of carefully cultivated patience.

“Are you on about this again? Really, Malfoy? You just don’t give up, do you? I told you at the start of term that I would not agree to having some poor house-elf running himself ragged at _your_ beck and call, because that’s what it would wind up being. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself, thank you. I don’t need a servant. Just because _your_ room’s a tip doesn’t mean that _I_ live like a pig as well. I seriously doubt Tinker is pining away because he’s missed the chance to collect your smelly socks and bring you your tea. That particular tradition is a load of archaic rubbish, anyway! Grow up, Malfoy. Oh, and by the way,” she tossed over her shoulder, scooping up her book bag and heading towards her room. “There was hair in the tub drain this morning. _And_ stuck to the soap. It’s my bathroom too. Get it sorted, please. I nearly heaved.”

And with that, the door to her room shut, the lock clicking decisively into place.

_Are you on about this again, Malfoy? Grow up, Malfoy._

Well, at least she’d called him by his surname this time. Piss-poor consolation, considering the outrageous effrontery with which she’d spoken to him, but it was something. She’d be sorry for the rest, though. He would see to that.

 

 

*

 

 

6 February  
Saturday night

 

 

The air in the Slytherin common room was thick with smoke. The ritual currently in progress had evolved over the course of the past five months; come Saturday night, any senior members of Slytherin House without prior plans would convene for an evening of cards, drink, and whatever inhaled substances they’d managed to get their hands on. The current stash of firewhisky, cigarettes and weed had been smuggled in and carefully hidden away in the bottoms of several trunks. Now, four eighth years, all deeply in their cups and thoroughly wasted to boot, were sitting, loose-limbed and blissful, around the large, round table in the common room. Candlelight flickered, wax pooling and dripping over the bases of candlesticks, and flames from the dying hearth fire cast long, dancing shadows on the stone walls of the cavernous, old dungeon room.

“Fuck’s sake, Goyle, some time this year, yeah?”

“Yeah, Greg, what’s it gonna be, then, eh?”

The needling around the table rose to a raucous, good-natured clamour, until at last, Gregory Goyle heaved a sigh and threw down his cards. “I’m out. My hand is shit.”

Theo Nott let out a sympathetic snort, nodding in agreement. “Mine too. Fold.”

Draco eyed the remaining player with a gleam in his eye. “Zabini? Now or never, old cock. Show us what you’ve got.”

Blaise Zabini smiled lazily and turned over his hand, spreading out the cards in a neat fan. “Straight flush. Beat _that_ , Malfoy.”

At that, Draco returned the smile, his own impossibly smug and Cheshire cat-like. “Delighted,” he replied, leaning forward, his own cards still hidden from view. Then he laid them down in the centre of the table for all to see.

Royal flush. There was a chorus of appreciative whistles and disbelieving groans.

Draco smiled serenely in the face of the noisy reaction. “I believe _that_ beats a straight flush, does it not?”

“Fuck you, Malfoy,” Blaise protested good-naturedly, pushing a small mountain of coins in Draco’s direction. “That’s three weeks in a row.”

“Excellent, excellent,” Draco murmured, grinning, as he gathered his winnings into a tidy, gleaming pile. “Thank you, gentlemen, for a most enjoyable and lucrative evening.” Pouring himself another shot of firewhisky, he downed it in a single gulp, shuddering involuntarily and making a face. “A bit of fortification. My resident harpy awaits.”

“How’s that going, anyway?” Theo slurred, holding out his glass for another shot. Draco obliged him with a generous refill, and he swallowed it down quickly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Royal pain in the arse, I bet. I don’t envy you, mate.”

Murmurs of “yeah” and “too right” rippled around the table. Draco nodded his head, grimacing. 

“Never in my entire life have I ever met a more… a more…” He struggled for a moment to choose the precise word he wanted from the arsenal of terms he’d often associated with the Head Girl. “… a more _maddening_ woman. If something is black, she’ll tell you it’s white. And no sense of humour at all. Reckon she wouldn’t know a joke if it fucking bit her. Always has her nose in a book and a list of school rules up her self-righteous arse. The way she carries on, it’s bloody _unnatural_. And I’m lumbered with all that shit. What she needs is a good shagging. Get that superior attitude fucked right out of her.” Draco gave a snort. “Problem is, who’d want to do _her_? Be like poking McGonagall. Ugh.”

Everyone shuddered at that prospect and the room fell silent for a moment. 

“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Blaise remarked, stubbing out his cigarette in a haze of blue smoke. “From what you say, Malfoy, she’s got no interest in blokes. Probably a closet bean flicker.”

“Yeah,” Theo added. “Doesn’t even look much like a girl in those baggy jumpers she always wears.”

“You know,” Draco mused, nodding, “I’ve wondered about that. She hardly ever goes out, and it’s true, I’ve never seen her with a bloke. Holes up in her room a lot. What d’you reckon she’s doing all those hours alone? Nobody reads _that_ much.”

There was universal agreement on that point, darkly titillating visions filling all four heads. 

And then a low voice broke the silence.

“I’d do her.”

Three heads swivelled around in the direction of the fourth. Gregory Goyle eyed the others calmly. 

“I’d do her,” he repeated. “I would. She’s not… she’s not half bad. Looking, I mean.”

Draco felt a slow smile pulling the corners of his mouth impossibly wide. He levelled a predatory gaze at Goyle. 

“Well, well. I’ll be damned. Who’d have guessed? Good old Goyle. How long’ve you fancied Granger, then? Hoping to be her Valentine?” 

Goyle flushed a rosy pink and dropped his gaze. “Don’t fancy her,” he muttered. “Just fancy a shag. Why not?” 

“Right.” Draco nodded, pulling a solemn, knowing expression. “Because one bird’s as good as another, yeah? You’ve got to be desperate to drop trou for Granger, though. How long’s it been, anyway?” 

Snickers erupted around the table, while Goyle glared defensively at everyone, his silence a telling answer in itself. When the laughter subsided, Draco sat back, regarding his friend thoughtfully. Tapping the tips of his fingers together, his eyes narrowed and a ghost of a devious smile quirked his mouth. 

“I see. Well, Goyle,” he drawled, “I believe that I might just have a way to remedy your sad situation. Kill two birds with one stone, as it were.” 

He couldn’t help snickering just a little at the sheer brilliance of the idea that had just sprung, fully blown and positively inspired, into his head. In fact, if his plan succeeded, there would be not two birds but _three_ very neatly dispatched with a single, well-placed stone. 

Valentine’s Day couldn’t come soon enough.

 

 

*

 

 

_Fetch me that flower; the herb I shew'd thee once:  
The juice of it on sleeping eye-lids laid  
Will make or man or woman madly dote  
Upon the next live creature that it sees._  


  
_And with the juice of this I'll streak her eyes,  
And make her full of hateful fantasies…_   


 

 

 

 

13 February  
Saturday, late morning

 

It hadn’t been easy, but he’d done it. 

Getting Professor Sprout to allow him access to the greenhouse after hours had been the simple bit. Apparently, the silly old cow was a sucker for a well-placed bit of flattery and subtle flirtation, both a particular specialty of his in the arsenal of persuasive tactics he commanded. 

The much trickier bit had been deciding what would go into the potion he intended to concoct– several nights’ research in the Restricted Section of the library had been necessary before he found exactly what would suit his purposes– and then growing the necessary plant until it had reached the precise moment of greatest potency. Time had been of the essence; he’d had only just over a week to get everything done. Fortunately, the plant involved could be encouraged to peak early with a bit of magical intervention. He’d had Professor Sprout to thank for that particular piece of information (“Of course, as you know, Mr. Malfoy, the benefit of even a quite ordinary greenhouse is that it simulates optimum growing conditions. In addition, we magical folk have the means of altering the growth rate of the plants if we so desire it, causing them to develop earlier or later in the season than usual or go through their life cycles at a much faster or slower rate than they would do ordinarily. This is particularly advantageous when a plant is required for medicinal purposes.”). He’d professed great excitement, eagerly asking to know more, and she’d happily provided him with a large and rather dilapidated old book, opening it on the work table in the centre of the greenhouse and flipping pages until she found the chapter she sought:

 _Plant Physiognomy and Metabolism_

Stabbing at the page with a chubby index finger, Professor Sprout had beamed triumphantly at him.

“Here we are! Everything you want to know. I confess,” she’d added, smiling and casually laying a hand over the open page, “I am rather surprised at this sudden, rather enthusiastic interest in Herbology, Mr. Malfoy. You’ve always seemed distinctly… well… lacking in commitment, shall we say. However, I’m delighted that you’ve come round to a genuine appreciation of the subject, as it is such an important part of your magical studies.”

“NEWTs,” Draco had muttered, his eyes wandering to the page in question, almost completely obscured now by Professor Sprout’s plump hand. 

“Ah yes. Of course.” Pomona Sprout had nodded gravely, her bushy eyebrows knitted together. “Well, well, I’ll leave you to it, then. If you have a question, don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll be in the next room.”

With that, she’d waddled off, leaving Draco to pore over the contents of the chapter. Everything he’d needed to know had been there for the taking. The plant he’d cultivated, carefully tending it day after day and giving it the specially formulated magical boost it had required, had grown into as perfect a specimen as he could have wished for. 

This morning, in the wan, grey light just after dawn, it had bloomed precisely on schedule, its delicate petals opening and emitting such a sweetly enticing scent that even Draco found himself sniffing appreciatively before abruptly remembering and recovering himself once again.

He gave an involuntary little shiver. And then he smiled, a crafty, smug show of perfect teeth. 

His secret weapon was ready at last. Time for Step Two.

 

 

*

 

 

  
_What thou seest when thou dost wake,  
Do it for thy true-love take,  
Love and languish for his sake…  
In thy eye that shall appear  
When thou wakest, it is thy dear:  
Wake when some vile thing is near._   


 

 

Saturday evening  
13 February

 

The Head Girl’s predictability, usually a source either of irritation or amusement for Draco, was now something about which he felt grateful and not a little bit relieved. As he'd anticipated, she had spent some time studying in the library directly after dinner and had returned to their suite of rooms at eight o’clock, disappearing into her bedroom for a time. 

Hermione emerged from her room at twenty minutes past eight, having changed into a comfy old t-shirt, sweats, and her favourite fuzzy slippers. Plopping down on the sofa, she curled up with an enormous book in her lap. 

Draco poked his head out from the small kitchenette just off the sitting room and grinned. 

“In for the evening, are we?” he observed, with a nod towards her attire, and then added archly, “Again?”

Hermione’s lips tightened a fraction. “Your concern for my social life is touching.”

“Isn’t it?” Draco sighed theatrically and shook his head. “Well, who knows, Granger? Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. Maybe you’ve a secret admirer lurking about somewhere. Not very likely, but anything’s possible.” 

Rolling her eyes, Hermione shook her head, on the verge of a response, and then thought better of it, resolutely turning back to her book. Stepping back into the kitchenette, Draco smiled to himself.

For several minutes, the room was deeply quiet, the only sound the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece, and then Draco strolled into the sitting room, two steaming mugs of cocoa in his hands. He placed one down on the low table before the sofa, and then seated himself in the generous armchair nearby, picking up a book of his own.

Absorbed in her reading, Hermione did not notice at first. Eventually, though, the rich odour of the hot chocolate perfuming the air caused her to glance up, sniffing appreciatively. She spotted the mug of cocoa, a generous dollop of whipped cream floating like a tiny, white mountain on top, and then looked at Draco, eyebrows raised in question.

“Thought you might fancy some cocoa, whilst I was about making it. Don’t look quite so shocked, Granger,” he added drily. “I _am_ capable of doing something nice occasionally. You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to.” 

Turning away to take a sip from his own mug, he raised his eyes just a speck to check her expression. His last, offhand remark had had the desired effect. Granger actually looked as if she were feeling a tad guilty for being so obviously surprised at his gesture. 

Perfect.

“No, no,” she answered hastily a moment later, picking up the mug. “Thanks, Draco. It was actually…”

“Yeah, all right. Don’t go getting all soppy on me,” he cut in, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s just cocoa.”

Though he wanted desperately to be sure she’d consume the entire mug’s worth of cocoa, Draco was careful to conceal his scrutiny. Turning the pages of his book at a regular clip, he took periodic swigs from his own mug, licking his lips with relish. Every once in a while, he would slant a quick look at Hermione, pleased to observe that her consumption was keeping pace with his. 

Shortly after he’d set his mug down for the last time, she did the same, sighing contentedly. Peering at her over the top of his book, he watched as the small, pink tip of her tongue darted out to lick the last bit of whipped cream from her lips and the corners of her mouth. She was maddeningly slow and methodical about it, as if her attention were elsewhere and her tongue were moving lazily, sinuously, of its own volition.

“Mmm, good,” she said at last, giving her bottom lip a final swipe with a fingertip and then popping it into her mouth. “Thanks again.”

Draco said nothing, merely nodding in response, the disturbing image of that tongue still behind his eyes. With a frown, he settled himself in the armchair once again, ostensibly to resume reading, his attention divided between the mantel clock and the figure of the Head Girl. If he’d got the sleeping draught right, it shouldn’t take very long to kick in. 

The minutes passed. One became three, which in turn became five, and gradually, Hermione’s muscles grew more and more slack, until finally, the heavy book slipped from her grasp and slid down her lap to the floor. Her head lolled and fell to one side, jerking once, twice, as she fought to stay awake, and then the battle was utterly lost. Moving as if in slow motion, she slumped into an awkward half-sitting, half-reclining position. By the time her head hit the cushions, her eyes were already shut and her breathing had changed markedly. 

Cautiously, Draco approached, watching and listening. By this time, Hermione was breathing very deeply. With great care so as not to wake her, he lifted her legs from the floor to the sofa; she would be out like a light for at least the next ten minutes. Drawing a small phial from his jeans pocket, he crouched down next to the sofa.

Three drops on each eyelid would do it. The elixir, distilled from the purified juice of the wild pansy at the peak of its flowering– Heart’s Ease, or Love-in-Idleness, as it was known in the oldest magical texts– was extremely powerful. No other love potion worked in quite the same way, its effect both immediate and overwhelming. Moreover, it could only be undone with precisely the right antidote. 

It was the stuff of magical legend, and Draco was about to discover just how much truth there was to all the old tales. His heart hammering with rising excitement and glee, he carefully uncorked the phial, squeezing the rubber head of the dropper so that its narrow passage gradually filled with the delicately scented elixir. And then, hand poised above Hermione’s eyes, he stopped, his attention arrested by what he saw.

She was breathing gently, her chest rising and falling with rhythmic regularity. Now that he was really looking, he could see the outline of a pair of rather nice breasts beneath the thin cotton of her t-shirt. Forcing his eyes away from her chest, he found himself studying her face as she slept. Her eyelids, nearly translucent and patterned with tiny blue veins, fluttered faintly, her long lashes dark against smooth, pale skin that was like fine porcelain. A sprinkling of small freckles dotted her nose and the upper portion of her cheeks. Her lips, full and rosy, were slightly parted, and she seemed to be in the throes of an especially pleasant dream, almost smiling in her sleep. He’d never before seen her so utterly relaxed. She actually looked almost… pretty. And completely vulnerable.

Gazing down at her, the dropper only inches from her eyelids, he found himself hesitating a moment longer. And then, muttering an oath under his breath, he shook off this sudden, rather irritating and intrusive ambivalence. What he’d planned for her had been a long time in coming and was richly deserved. And the entertainment it would provide was the sweet and very satisfying cherry on the cake.

Steadying his hand, he carefully squeezed off three drops of the elixir. Then he administered another three, watching as the droplets spattered onto the delicate skin of each eyelid. Holding his breath, he waited, half afraid her eyes would suddenly fly open and irate shrieks would fill his ears. Instead, she remained quite still, only flinching slightly when the first drops touched her skin and then frowning, her lids still weighted shut with sleep.

Capping the phial, Draco got to his feet and checked the time. Nearly nine o’clock. Goyle should be here any second now. With an anxious backward glance at Hermione, he went to the door and waited, holding his breath. A moment later, there was a soft knock, and, with a finger to his lips, Draco ushered Goyle in. Then he hastily retreated to his bedroom, leaving his door slightly ajar. 

Goyle bent over Hermione, tentatively giving her shoulder a small shake, and then another, as instructed. Through the narrow opening in the doorway, Draco watched as she slowly roused herself, stretching and yawning as if she’d been sound asleep for hours instead of only minutes. Then her eyes fluttered open and she found herself looking straight at a nervous Gregory Goyle. 

Draco stuffed his fist into his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. He wasn’t sure if Goyle looked happy or terrified at the prospect of what was about to happen. Maybe both. But it wasn’t Goyle’s reaction he was most interested in at the moment. It was–

“Goyle! What are you doing here?” Hermione’s voice betrayed both surprise and annoyance.

 _Fuck_. The potion had failed miserably. From his hiding place, Draco swore silently, clenching his fists.

“I… I…” Goyle stammered, confused. This wasn’t what Draco had told him to expect, and he had no idea what to do. 

Hermione had been staring at Goyle all this time, her eyes narrowed. Now, suddenly, they opened very wide indeed, as did her mouth, which formed a perfect O. The smile that followed was dazzling.

“Gregory!” Her voice was as smooth and sweet as honey. “What a perfectly _wonderful_ surprise!”

 _Yes!_ Draco could barely contain his glee. He took another peek. Granger was gazing up at Goyle as if he were the answer to all her girlish little prayers. 

Oh yes. This was going to be _good._

 

 

*

 

 

  
_Mine ear is much enamour'd of thy note;  
So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape;  
And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me  
On the first view to say, to swear, I love thee._   


 

 

 

14 February  
Sunday afternoon  
Valentine’s Day

 

To say that the members of both Gryffindor and Slytherin were surprised would be a gross understatement. In fact, virtually the entire school, especially anyone old enough to know anything about either Hermione or Goyle, were astounded. The teaching staff, Professor McGonagall in particular, were equally shocked. “Flabbergasted” was the word she used in a private conversation with Professor Flitwick. The spectacle to which the school was being treated was nothing short of mind-boggling. 

“What the hell is up with Hermione?” Neville had whispered to Ginny at breakfast. “She’s gone right round the twist, she has!”

The rest of the Gryffindor table had sat, agog, in a frozen tableau. Only moments before, Hermione had left them to bring a plate of buttered and jam-slathered toast points to the Slytherin table. Insinuating herself between Goyle and a speechless Pansy Parkinson, she had smiled sweetly and begun feeding the toast, bite by heart-shaped bite, to Goyle. It hadn’t been possible to hear what she was saying, but it was fairly plain to everyone that she’d been whispering sweet nothings into his ear with every bite, all the while fixing him with an adoring gaze. The common consensus was that being unable to hear what she’d said was a blessing, considering they’d all just eaten. 

With all the buzz flying at every house’s table, nobody had noticed the one Slytherin who hadn’t seemed terribly surprised. He’d sat back and watched the show with an air of unflappable calm, the barest hint of a smile quirking a corner of his mouth and carefully veiled amusement in his grey eyes.

Later, Ginny had caught up with Hermione as the Great Hall emptied and everyone made their way back to the dorms.

“Okay, Hermione,” she’d demanded. “Spill! What’s going on?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’s going on’? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” Hermione had shrugged and turned to go. 

Ginny had caught her arm, pulling her back. “You know… you and… and _Goyle!_ Hermione, what on earth are you playing at? Oh, I know! You’re taking the mickey, yeah? This whole thing is a joke. Or a Valentine’s Day dare. That must be it. Right? Because I mean, you couldn’t possibly… you just _couldn’t_ …”

Hermione had gently plucked Ginny’s fingers from her arm, smiling tremulously and blushing to the roots of her hair. “Listen, Gin,” she whispered. “You’ve got to promise not to tell, okay?”

The younger girl had nodded avidly. “Witch’s honour.”

“Well…” Hermione had looked around and then moved closer, whispering in Ginny’s ear.

The other girl’s jaw had dropped unabashedly. “You’re _what?_ ” she hissed.

A second wave of colour had swept over Hermione’s cheeks. She’d nodded and smiled sheepishly. “It’s true. I’m in love.”

“With _Goyle??_ ” Ginny’s mouth had dropped open a bit further. She’d looked utterly scandalised. “But… but _why?_ ”

Heaving a sigh, Hermione had stared off into space, starry-eyed, a goofy smile plastered on her face as she contemplated the object of her desire. 

“I can’t explain it, Gin. He’s just… I don’t know… so big and strong, and yet… vulnerable, you know? Like a little boy. He _needs_ me, you know? He’s really misunderstood. And unappreciated. And really, awfully sweet. And gosh…” Here, she’d sighed deeply once again, and this time, her words were fraught with pure, unvarnished desire. “He’s really _hot_ , don’t you think?”

No, Ginny had thought to herself, feeling as if she might become violently ill. That particular thought had never once crossed her mind.

Reflexively, she’d shuddered and then reached a hand out to Hermione’s forehead. “You feeling all right, Hermione? I mean, you’re not ill, are you? Maybe you should go see Madam Pomfrey…”

Laughing merrily, Hermione had brushed away Ginny’s hand. “Don’t be silly! I’m fine. It’s Valentine’s Day and I’m going to have the best one ever! Must go, things to do! See you later, Gin!”

And before she knew it, Ginny had been standing by herself in the corridor, completely dumbstruck. What the bloody hell had just happened?

Collecting herself, she’d hurried off to the Gryffindor common room. Her housemates were not going to believe what she had to tell them.


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two

 

 

 

 

Neither, apparently, did the members of Slytherin House. Even the few who had been privy to Draco’s plan were plainly astonished that he had actually pulled it off. The rest, who knew nothing about what Draco had done, looked as if they were struggling to keep their brains from liquefying and leaking out of their ears. 

Pansy sat on the sofa in the common room, her gaze fixed on Goyle and her mouth agape. Beside her, Millicent Bulstrode had much the same expression and posture, except that she looked decidedly incensed as well. In fact, Draco thought to himself with a smirk, if looks could kill, Goyle would have been dead a thousand times over by now. Poor Millie. Apparently, she had been harbouring a secret crush on Goyle. Well, that particular cat was definitely out of the bag now. 

Unbelievably, Goyle himself remained utterly oblivious to Millicent’s painful jealousy and ire. He was basking in the rosy glow of his newfound lady love’s attentions. An open valentine lay in his lap and he was staring off into space, the same addled expression on his face that Ginny had observed on Hermione’s. Smiling to himself in satisfaction, Draco sat down beside Goyle.

“What’ve you got there?” he asked, all innocence.

“Something from _her_ ,” Goyle replied, grinning. “Have a look.” Passing the card to Draco, he dropped his voice. “You really did it! Thanks, mate!”

Nodding absently, Draco opened the homemade card. There was a large, hand-drawn pink heart with “HG Loves GG” penned in the centre, and a chocolate frog Spellotaped beneath. The frog wriggled in a vain attempt to free itself. A bit crude, Draco decided, but nauseatingly heartfelt, overall.

“Good on you, Greg,” he said, swallowing his laughter. “Got a date with her tonight?”

Goyle grinned, looking for all the world like an over-eager St. Bernard. “Yeah. I do. Meeting her at eight. Thought we’d take a walk, maybe. What d’you reckon?”

Draco nodded sagely. “Mmm. A romantic stroll in the moonlight. Girls love that sort of stuff. Don’t forget to give her a little present, though. Flowers or sweets.”

“Yeah, okay.” Goyle digested this piece of advice and then another thought occurred. “Should… should I kiss her?”

“Absolutely. She’ll be hurt if you don’t. Insulted, even. She’ll think you don’t really fancy her.” 

“But…” Suddenly, Goyle looked uncertain and a bit nervous. “You sure? How do I know she won’t be offended? You never know. A girl like Hermione… she’s quality. Wouldn’t want to rush her.”

Quality? The Mudblood? The very idea was the most blatant oxymoron. Since when did Goyle feel that way? Deciding he would puzzle this one out later, Draco pressed on, smiling reassuringly.

“Trust me, you won’t be rushing her. I saw her falling all over you at breakfast. She’s positively gagging for it.”

“You reckon?” Goyle perked up, looking hopeful and more confident now. “Right, then. Thanks, Draco. I owe you one.” 

True, Draco thought to himself. And eventually, he would collect. But that could wait. There were more important concerns at the moment. He got to his feet.

“Right, you lot," he announced to the room at large. "I’m off back to my rooms. Head duties and all that. See you later.” Catching Goyle’s eye, he winked, grinning slyly. Colouring, Goyle returned the grin and gave Draco a jaunty, little thumbs-up.

As he hurried along the corridors back to the Heads’ suite, he hummed to himself in gleeful anticipation of what he knew would be waiting for him just on the other side of the door.

 

 

*

 

 

Happily, Granger didn’t disappoint. Draco had only just made himself comfortable on the sitting room sofa, stretching his long legs out with a contented sigh, when the door to her room opened and she came in, clad in a flannel dressing gown, her newly washed hair wrapped in a towel. She had a large box and a bag in her hands. Soon, the contents of the bag were spread out on the table in the corner of the room: scissors, Spellotape, ribbons, lace, and glittery stars.

Curious, Draco raised his head off the cushions, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of what Hermione was so busy with. 

“For me?” he drawled, propping his head on one arm. “I didn’t know you cared.”

Hermione paused in the midst of creating a veritable waterfall of beribboned curlicues in green and silver, regarding Draco as she would a pathetically backward child who needed things explained in the simplest language. 

“This is for my valentine,” she told him primly. “I’m seeing him tonight.” She turned back to her decorating efforts, her body language indicating quite clearly that she hoped the conversation was now at an end.

“What’s in the box?” Draco couldn’t resist asking, though he suspected he already knew the answer. A tantalising smell hung in the air, and he would wager anything it was something chocolate.

“Well, if you must know, I’ve made him some brownies. Do you think he’ll like that?” Suddenly, Hermione looked uncertain and slightly alarmed.

“Can’t say if you don’t tell me who it is, now can I? Poor sod,” he added, snickering. “Whoever it is, somebody really should warn him about your cooking. Get a poison antidote ready.”

“Ha ha, very funny, Malfoy. It’s… it’s Goyle,” she faltered. She dropped her eyes, her cheeks turning quite rosy. 

“Goyle, eh?” Draco pulled himself up on one elbow and grinned. “Well, well. Fancy that. I’d no idea you two were an item.”

“We weren’t. I mean, well… not before yesterday. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. But anyway, it doesn’t matter, does it, because I see it now.” Her sudden, brilliant smile told the whole pathetic story in a single glance. 

Merlin, she had it bad. 

“Oh, and…” Draco added casually, as she put the finishing touches on the box, “I expect he’ll love your little gift. You could offer Goyle the back end of a hippogriff and he’d probably eat it. You’d be amazed, the repulsive shit he eats sometimes.”

At this, Hermione said nothing, but her mouth tightened and she glanced away, her eyes suspiciously bright. Quickly scooping up the festive-looking box, she disappeared into her room, the door shutting with a pronounced bang.

What, had he said something so terrible? It was true. Goyle _would_ eat just about anything. He was a walking rubbish disposal and everybody knew it. Silly cow was being too sensitive. 

Fuck’s sake, why was he even thinking about this? Her feelings were of no concern to him either way. In fact, he reminded himself, the whole point of the plan had been to embarrass and humiliate her, put her in her place in a spectacularly public manner. The plan was going off like a dream. Aggravated now, Draco got up from the sofa, raking a hand through his hair, and stomped into his own room, slamming the door behind him.

 

 

*

 

 

Dinner came and went, and all the students returned to their dormitories, some to get ready for special dates they had that evening. 

Just before eight o’clock, there was a knock on the Heads’ door. Draco hoisted himself up out of the armchair and went to open it. There stood Goyle, his hair damply plastered down to his skull and curling up at the edges, his face freshly scrubbed and a bit pink from the effort. He carried a small bunch of flowers that were already protesting the lack of water and starting to wilt rather sadly.

Stifling a chuckle, Draco pulled a straight face and ushered Goyle into the sitting room. He gestured towards the sofa and the taller boy gratefully sat down.

“Thanks, mate,” he began, swallowing hard. “Is she…”

Just then, Hermione’s door opened and she emerged. Draco caught sight of her first, and then Goyle jumped up from the sofa and turned around to face her as well.

She was a vision in a scoop-necked, white angora jumper adorned with tiny rhinestones that sparkled like stars. Snug-fitting black jeans completed the outfit, showing off admirable curves. Tiny diamond studs winked from her ear lobes and her hair, full and glossy, fell freely to her shoulders, drawing the eye down to some rather impressive cleavage. 

Goyle gazed at her with frank admiration. He was the lucky bloke who would be taking her out, and, if he were lucky, sampling the charms of this smashing-looking girl, and well he knew it. 

Meanwhile, Draco was staring at Hermione in shock. This was not the plain girl who regularly hid beneath voluminous school robes and oversized jumpers, eschewed make-up, never bothered with jewellery, and more often than not, simply yanked her hair back into a messy bun and forgot about it except as a handy place to store her quill. 

In the light of such an awestruck response, Hermione blushed prettily, drawing out the beribboned box from behind her back.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Gregory,” she breathed, proffering the box. “I hope you like chocolate.”

Goyle seemed to have forgotten everything, even his own name, so stunned was he at the sight of her. A moment passed, and then abruptly, he came back to himself, flushing with embarrassment as he stepped forward to accept the gift.

“Thanks, Hermione,” he said shyly, and thrust out the fading bouquet. “For you.”

Hermione took the flowers, holding them as tenderly as if she’d just been handed the most priceless bouquet of rare orchids. She brought them to her nose and sniffed, then gave Goyle a delighted smile. 

“Oh, they’re lovely! Thank you!”

Goyle shuffled from one foot to the other, clearly unsure of what to do next, until Hermione gracefully slung her woollen cloak over one arm, slipping her other arm through his and beaming up at him adoringly.

“Shall we go?”

Goyle nodded eagerly, holding the door for Hermione. It swung shut behind them, leaving Draco alone to savour the last ten minutes as he replayed them over and over again in his head. 

“ _Oh, they’re just LOVEly! Thank you! Shall we go?_ ” he parroted, snorting derisively as he recalled a besotted Hermione gazing, utterly transfixed, at Goyle. The two of them had looked perfectly absurd together: petite, little Granger and big, hulking, graceless Goyle. Like Beauty and the fucking Beast. And she hadn’t been able to stop staring at him. Like she wanted to devour him with her eyes. Like she was starving and he was the banquet. Quite a spectacle, the two of them. Disgusting, really. Ridiculous.

It would seem that the potion had exceeded his wildest expectations. Smiling grimly, he left the suite in search of a willing pair of tits and a good, stiff drink.

 

 

*

 

 

In the days following Valentine’s Day, the general student populace gradually got over the initial and more profound shock of seeing Hermione Granger– Head Girl, war heroine, and the pride of Gryffindor– hanging reverentially on Gregory Goyle’s every word, look, and gesture. Generally acknowledged, even within his own house, as rather a dim bulb, he seemed an especially peculiar choice for the Head Girl. There was definitely a missing piece to the puzzle, everybody agreed on that, but only a select few knew what it was. And they weren’t talking, except to each other.

That is, until somebody got the bright idea of running a betting pool, its subject being whether or not Goyle would successfully find his way into Hermione Granger’s knickers. One could also place a side wager on how long it would take him if he did succeed. News of the pool spread like wildfire through the school, and Blaise Zabini was happily collecting Knuts right and left. 

Option A– Goyle not getting within a mile of Granger’s knickers– was the odds-on favourite wager at the moment, running five to one, as the majority opinion seemed to be that beneath all that adoration, she was still principled (read “prudish”). As for the secondary bet, two time frames were running neck and neck. Roughly half, those choosing Option B, believed that she’d lose it to him within a month, assuming she still had it to begin with (and most believed she probably did), while the other half were sure a couple of very intense weeks would do it: Option C. 

Word of the pool reached Draco within an hour of the first bets being placed. Upon learning of it, his first reaction was anger at not being cut in on the action from the beginning. And then he realised that this was probably for the best. He would not want the slightest suspicion falling on him as the one responsible for this bizarre turn of events. Perhaps he’d place a bet, perhaps not, but if he did, that would be the extent of his involvement. 

Come to think of it, he mused, walking down the corridor towards his next class one afternoon, how _would_ he choose to bet? It seemed, weighing everything objectively, that it was down to just how clueless Goyle would prove to be versus the depth of Granger’s infatuation and lust. If the latter were powerful enough, it could overcome Goyle’s abysmal lack of game. Hell, she’d looked like she wanted to jump him on their very first date.

Despite himself, Draco shuddered at the memory of that Valentine’s night. He’d had a relatively early one himself, as the Hufflepuff seventh-year he’d spent the evening with had got sick on the illicit firewhisky they’d consumed, throwing up on his shoes. That had effectively put an end to any amorous inclinations he might’ve had, and he’d watched her flee with a sense of profound relief. She’d been sexy enough– lovely rack!– but not terribly bright. He’d tried very hard to focus solely on parting her from her blouse and then her bra, but found himself increasingly irritated by her incessant giggling and her vapid remarks. The contents of her stomach winding up on his shoes had just been the revolting _coup de grâce._

Shortly after he’d arrived back at the Heads’ suite, inebriated and irritable and craving the comfort of the old sofa, Hermione and Goyle had turned up. When the door opened, he’d held his breath, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. This was one conversation he hadn’t wanted to miss.

They were standing just on the other side of the sofa back, talking. 

“Oh Greg, I had the most _wonderful_ time.”

“Yeah, uh… me too.” Voice suddenly going a bit raspy. The sound of a throat being noisily cleared. 

“Wasn’t the moonlight just lovely?” Breathy sigh.

“Reckon so, yeah. Very nice.” 

There had been a pronounced silence for a couple of minutes, punctuated by sighs and whispers, and then a low giggle.

Draco had found himself straining to hear, his imagination running riot as he pictured what Hermione and Goyle might actually be doing. At last, unable to contain his curiosity, he’d stealthily raised himself just high enough to peer over the top of the sofa. Evidently, Goyle had, in his own clumsy way, taken Draco’s suggestion very much to heart. He had Hermione in a lip lock– or really, it looked to be more the other way around. Granger had wrapped herself around Goyle much the way climbing vines sinuously twine themselves around tree trunks, and she was clinging to him for dear life, pressing ardent kisses on his mouth. As for Goyle, he appeared to be in a blissful trance, one hand buried in Hermione’s luxuriant hair and the other stroking the slender column of her neck.

The sight shouldn’t have surprised Draco, as it was precisely what he himself had encouraged Goyle to do. He’d expected that the two of them together like that would look ludicrous, and indeed, they did. He’d expected, too, that he would find the sight of them hilarious in the extreme. It certainly was that as well. The impulse to laugh bubbled dangerously in his chest now, threatening to burst out and betray his presence on the sofa. But there had also been something else, something unexpectedly repellent about the sight of clever, capable Granger melting into a puddle of lovesick goo in the arms of an oaf like Goyle. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why, but it had rankled vaguely.

Fortunately for the state of his stomach, already in upheaval from too much firewhisky, the lovebirds had parted company a moment later, Hermione blowing a final, sickening kiss at Goyle as he left. Then, she’d turned with a sigh and floated into her room, still oblivious to the Head Boy’s presence.

Flopping back on the sofa cushions, Draco had squeezed his eyes shut. A nasty headache had been on the boil by then– he’d felt the first pains throbbing behind his eyes– and he’d begun to reassess the wisdom of what he had thought was a brilliantly clever little plan. 

He hadn’t counted on the revulsion factor, and now he wondered just how much more he would be able to stand before feeling compelled to murder one or both of them.

 

 

*

 

 

25 February  
Thursday

 

In the time that had passed since that night, Draco’s endurance had been put to the test more times than he cared to count. It seemed that everywhere he looked, there was Granger, cooing over Goyle and attached to him like an extra appendage. She brought him extra sweets at meals, and then, to the continuing astonishment of the Slytherins, would seat herself next to him, raptly watching him eat every last bite of cake or tart or pudding. She walked arm in arm with him between classes, pressing her body as close to his as she could manage. 

Most revolting of all, she sent him steamy glances in class, complete with suggestive smiles and kisses she would blow in his direction. Occasionally, she spiced it up with a cherry lollipop that she carefully hid in her lap whenever a teacher looked her way. Merlin only knew how Goyle himself was coping with such provocative attentions. Any red-blooded male in the room caught in the crossfire of one of those glances found he had an almost immediate, intensely embarrassing, and quite painful hard-on to deal with. Draco had taken particular note of this fact, relieved that at least he wasn’t the only one. He was only human, after all. ‘I mean,’ he thought desperately to himself one afternoon in Transfiguration, yet another excruciating erection poking up through his robes, ‘any bloke would react like this, right?’ Granger had become strangely, surprisingly hot, somehow. If such a transformation was what falling in love did to a girl, he concluded ruefully, it was actually a bit scary. Like a force of nature.

He had a problem all right, and it was completely his own doing. Now he had to work out how to deal with it. Deciding that this situation required some outside assistance and advice, he sought out Blaise and Theo, getting the two of them alone in a deserted corner of the library after dinner one evening.

Hastily, Draco filled them in on his dilemma, putting it to them bluntly. He’d discovered himself to be the victim of warring impulses when trying to arrive at the answer to one essential question:

In the last eleven days, had he subjected Granger to a sufficient amount of public humiliation from which she would probably never fully recover? 

“No way,” Theo piped up immediately. “She deserves to suffer a bit longer, considering how much of a pain in your arse she’s been all term, not to mention the past seven years. And think about all the trouble you went to, making that love potion. It’s worth at _least_ two weeks of driving Granger crazy, if not longer.”

That made sense. Didn’t it? Of course, Draco reminded himself, there was serious money riding on a certain wager, and he had a sneaking suspicion that Theo stood to lose a fair bit if events went a certain way. However, Theo’s extra-curricular activities, wagers notwithstanding, were not Draco’s concern. Dubiously, he turned to Blaise, who was now shaking his head vigorously and frowning.

“Fuck that,” he snorted. ‘Don’t be a twat, Malfoy. You’re only driving _yourself_ round the bend, having to watch her drool all over Goyle day in and day out. You’ve created a monster. I say, kill it. The sooner the better. Do us all a favour, yeah? I don’t think I can take much more of this myself!”

Hmm. Zabini had a point, or several, really. It meant that Draco would need to come up with the antidote sooner than he’d originally planned. In point of fact, he realised in sudden frustration, he hadn’t really planned that bit at all. He’d been so eager to slip her the love potion that he hadn’t really given much thought to the eventuality of having to reverse its effects. 

_Fuck._

Draco drew a deep breath. Right, then. He would begin working on the antidote straightaway, and put things back to normal– “normal” being a sexless, swotty Granger he could blithely ignore when he wasn’t giving her a hard time. If he could come up with the potion, surely he could work out a way to undo it. 

Before he did, though, he might as well take advantage of Granger’s current state to enjoy one final perk that had suddenly suggested itself to him.

With a sudden, sly grin, Draco nodded his agreement and stood to leave. Then he threw his friends a wink, and both Theo and Blaise felt thoroughly reassured. Malfoy was on top of his game once again, and all would soon be right with the world.

 

 

*

 

 

Two days later…

 

“What may Tinker bring Master Draco for elevenses?”

A tiny house-elf clad in an oversized pillow slip inclined his head deferentially and then gazed at Draco with huge, watery, blue eyes.

Currently, Draco was enjoying a lazy, Saturday-morning lie-in, made even more pleasant by the fact that finally, he was about to have a proper breakfast in bed without lifting a finger himself. 

“Hmm…” he mused. “You know, Tinker, I believe that first, I would like another pillow. Not one of the really squishy, soft ones, though. They give me a stiff neck. And then a cup of tea– the Earl Grey, that blend I like best, you know the one– and a scone. Warmed lightly, with butter and bilberry jam. Oh, and Tinker…” 

The little house-elf had begun backing away but stopped in his tracks. Draco yawned widely and gave him a complacent smile. “A foot rub, if you please, whilst I’m having my breakfast.”

“Very good, Master Draco,” Tinker squeaked and hurried off in search of a pillow. 

Draco sighed pleasurably. This was the way it was meant to be. One of the very best perks of being Head was having one’s own house-elf. It was _tradition._ One simply did not fly in the face of tradition. 

For the past six months, Granger had done precisely that, of course, and under ordinary circumstances, she wouldn’t tolerate Tinker serving them even now. But for the time being, anyway, these were not ordinary circumstances. As far as she was concerned, Tinker might as well not be here at all, much less seeing to Draco’s needs. In fact, the little house-elf was currently seeing to hers as well, for all the notice she was taking of him. Her thoughts were clearly elsewhere; whenever he addressed her directly, brought her a cup of tea or an evening snack, or tidied up her books on their study table, she simply smiled absently, murmuring her thanks. Tinker might as well have been invisible.

This state of affairs suited Draco admirably. It would take him a while, at least, to formulate the antidote for the love potion. In the meantime, he might as well offset the emotional trauma to which Granger and Goyle were regularly subjecting him with whatever creature comforts he could find, unimpeded.

 

 

*

 

 

2 March  
Tuesday afternoon

 

The day was an unusually frigid one for this time of year, even for the Scottish Highlands. It had snowed quite hard the night before, and now window panes all over the castle were encased in a brittle crust of ice dusted over with blowing snow. The ticking of the mantel clock in the Heads’ sitting room was rhythmic and methodical, like a metronome, a hypnotic sound in the deep quiet that had settled over the room. Apart from the occasional crackle and pop of the fire in the hearth, which Tinker had made sure to stoke from time to time, the ticking of the clock was the only sound.

Hermione and Draco had shared the room quite companionably for the better part of the afternoon, their last class having finished shortly after lunch. She sat curled up at one end of the sofa, wrapped in a fleecy throw, while he’d remained practically motionless at the study table for the last several hours, buried in the pages of an especially large book he’d borrowed from Professor Sprout. He’d been there when Hermione had come in, and he hadn’t stirred in all the time since then, so intent was he on his work. 

She succumbed to her curiosity at last. “What’s that you’re reading?”

The sudden sound of her voice startled Draco, breaking his concentration, and he jumped a little. Then, his heart calming and returning to a regular rhythm, he smiled crookedly. “What, this? Why? Worried that you might be missing something?”

Hermione sat back, faintly nettled. “Not at all. I just wondered, that’s all. You’ve had your nose in that book for hours. It looks like one I’ve seen in the greenhouse library.” 

“Spot on, Granger,” he replied smoothly, not missing a beat. “Points to you. I did get this book from Professor Sprout. She, uh…” He thought quickly. “She loaned it to me for an extra-credit project I have in mind.” There. That sounded reasonable.

“Really?” Hermione’s voice betrayed a certain scepticism. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me you’ve developed a sudden passion for Herbology?”

“Don’t be daft!” he snorted, and then he dropped his voice conspiratorially, preparing to gild the lily just a bit more. “I, uh… well, strictly speaking, I haven’t exactly kept on top of the work in Sprout’s class, if you know what I mean, and I could use the extra credit.” 

Hermione quirked an eyebrow. “I see.” Curious and unexpected, that Malfoy should admit something like that to her, of all people. Still, beneath all that ego and arrogance, he was just a person with flaws like the rest of the human race, even if he generally didn’t condescend to admit it. That he would allow her to glimpse a crack in the carefully polished veneer he’d always cultivated was revealing. Intriguing, even. She decided to press him a bit further.

“If, you know, you need any help, well…” She paused, shrugging lightly. “Maybe I…”

What was she thinking? He’d never go for it. Stupid of her, even to offer. Draco Malfoy would never accept help from her, not in a million years. His pride would never allow it.

And then he looked up, and there was an expression on his face– genuinely surprised, eyes narrowing slightly, and then thoughtful– that stopped her train of thought dead in its tracks. 

“You would do that? For me?” he asked, carefully masking the small flare of excitement at the inspired idea she had inadvertently given him.

Hermione nodded. “I’ll try,” she told him earnestly. “Tell me what it is you’re researching.” 

There was a light in her eyes now, a palpable sense of excitement as she anticipated this new intellectual challenge, and for just a moment, Draco felt a sharp stab of guilt. The small lie he’d just concocted was nothing. It was the fact that if he followed through on the brainstorm he’d just had, he would be using her rather shamelessly, in addition to the prank he’d already played on her. Still, he reasoned, it was in a good cause this time, and a positive end surely justified the means it took to achieve it. If she helped him come up with an antidote for the love potion, albeit unwittingly, he could free her of its effects that much sooner. And helping him had been her idea in the first place. He couldn’t really be faulted for accepting, could he? 

Right, then. Shaking off any lingering feelings of guilt, he affected a serious demeanour. “Okay,” he began. “If you’re certain you don’t mind. Hang on a moment, yeah? I just want to finish reading this page.”

Turning back to the book, he frowned, thinking fast and hard. What construct could he give an alleged extra-credit project that would sound reasonable and effectively cover what he was actually researching? 

Scanning the page, part of the same chapter into which he’d delved to create the elixir in the first place, an idea suddenly came to him. He only hoped it wouldn’t sound like complete bollocks.

“See,” he told her now, “what I’m studying is how the potency of the potion compounds we get from plant parts changes, according to the stage of development the plant is in. Get it?”

“So… you’re thinking that your potion results might vary quite a lot, depending on whether it’s a very young plant or if the plant has fully matured. Is that it?” Hermione knitted her brows together, drawing her knees up beneath the blanket and clasping her arms around them.

Draco nodded. “That’s it exactly. And I’m wondering how the stage of development would affect an antidote as well. You know... hypothetically.” 

Hermione thought for a moment, absently tapping a fingertip against her bottom lip. “Well,” she mused, “the younger the plant, the weaker its properties, I should think. That’s just simple logic.” She paused. Then her eyes grew wide and she rocked forward, hugging her knees, her voice rising in excitement. “In fact, what if you were to make the antidote from the _seeds themselves?_ Just maybe, whatever effects you wanted to reverse could be cancelled out entirely with a potion made from the seeds, instead of–” 

“The leaves or flowers or roots. Cancelled out, yeah. _Negated_ ,” Draco said slowly, genuine admiration in his voice. True, he had already worked out the basics for the antidote, but it had been Hermione who’d seen, with wonderful clarity, how the pieces might possibly fit together. “Thanks, Granger. That’s brilliant,” he murmured and honestly meant it. “I’ll test it and see if it works.”

Indeed he would.

Hermione flashed him a delighted smile. “Good luck. I’m glad I could help.”

In her enthusiasm, her cheeks had flushed a becoming pink and her large, hazel eyes were sparkling. She was really quite pretty, and it wasn’t anything to do with Goyle. He wondered how he’d missed seeing it all these years.

Hmm. Talking about Goyle…

“So…” he began conversationally a moment later. “Got plans with your boyfriend tonight?”

Hermione looked up from her book and smiled wistfully at the mention of her beloved. “No, not tonight, I’m afraid. Too much homework to do. And we don’t get a lot done when we study together!” She giggled, blushing fiercely. 

Right. Now he _had_ to ask the question he’d been dying to put to her for the past two weeks. 

“Just what do you see in Goyle, anyway? I mean, he’s my friend and all, but even I know he’s a bit dozy. What do you two talk about?”

Hermione paused and then smiled, slanting a coy, sloe-eyed look at him. “We don’t do a lot of talking.” 

It was exactly the answer he’d expected– the only answer she could have given, considering the origin and nature of her infatuation with Goyle– and yet somehow, it pained him to hear it and to imagine the two of them together _that way_. For the first time, he wondered seriously whether those who had bet their Knuts on the time frame of a month were going to lose their shirts. He had already concluded, with an unexpected sinking feeling, that the ones who’d bet against Goyle succeeding at all had probably long since lost theirs. 

He studied at Hermione for a very long moment. _Had_ they?

“What?!” she laughed. “You’re staring!”

“Nothing,” Draco muttered and stood abruptly. He really didn’t want the answer to that particular question, and anyway, he had serious work to be getting on with. He would go to the greenhouse and see if he could wangle some wild pansy seeds from Professor Sprout. She was sure to be there, he reckoned– she invariably was, not having much of a life outside its walls– and no doubt she would be thrilled to observe his continuing interest in Herbology. Hell, he might even go ahead and write that bogus report and get some extra credit out of this stupid fuck-up of his. 

First things first, however.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Part Three

 

 

 

 

5 March  
Friday evening

 

Three small phials in his jeans pocket bumped against Draco’s thigh as he made his way swiftly along the shadowy corridors back to the Heads’ suite. There was no time to waste. Hermione had a date tonight in less than two hours. It would be his first chance to test a possible antidote.

In the last week, he’d spent hours researching in the library and poring over various Herbology texts Professor Sprout had loaned him. Once he’d managed to get his hands on some wild pansy seeds, finagling his way into the potions classroom after hours hadn’t been difficult; that story about the extra-credit project had come in very useful not only for Professor Sprout’s ears but for Professor Philistra, the new Potions master, as well. The note from Professor Sprout hadn’t hurt either. Additional hours had then been devoted to experimenting with a number of base ingredients, to which he’d added varying quantities of the crushed seeds.

After a good deal of trial and error, he’d wound up with three possible antidotes, not having the slightest idea, really, which one if any might actually eradicate the effects of the love potion. Hermione would be the guinea pig, beginning tonight. He could only hope that none of the elixirs would have any unforeseen side effects. The hole he’d dug for himself was already deep enough.

Arriving back in his living quarters, Draco cautiously peered inside. The sitting room was empty. Good. That meant Hermione was probably in her room, getting dressed. 

He hurried into his own room and yanked open a desk drawer, fishing around in the back until his fingers closed over a small tin. Fortunately, there was still a bit of the original sleeping powder left. He’d need that to get the ball rolling. 

Hermione was singing lustily in the shower, her voice carrying clearly as far as the sitting room and kitchenette, where Draco now stood. Her voice was often a bit off-key at the best of times, and decidedly so the more enthusiastically she sang. He’d teased her about it often over the course of the term. She’d always doggedly ignored his comments. Judging by how much his ears were hurting at the moment, she must be quite excited about her date, he decided, unable to help snickering. 

Setting a tray with two glasses of ruby-coloured wine on the low table beside the sofa, Draco sat down and waited. Before long, the door to Hermione’s room opened and she emerged, freshly showered and dressed, threading fingers through hair that was still damp and beginning to curling slightly. A light but beguiling floral scent seemed to radiate from her.

She wore a pair of jeans and a low-cut, burgundy velvet tunic top, its sweetheart neckline showing off a lovely bit of creamy cleavage. Silver hoop earrings glinted against chestnut curls. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed in anticipation, and her lips… oh, her lips… Soft and full, they glistened with the berry-stained gloss she’d just put on, and now she pressed them together, drawing his gaze. Draco found himself fixated. Suddenly, all he could think of was tasting them, tasting her. 

The mantel clock struck the quarter hour as Hermione settled herself in the armchair to wait.

“Are you expecting someone?” she asked.

“What? Oh!” Her question shattered his trance, bringing him abruptly back to earth. “You mean the wine? No, I– actually, I thought you might like to have a glass with me before Goyle gets here. I wanted to thank you for helping me with that project.”

“Oh!” Clearly, Hermione was surprised, but she was also pleased. “Where’s Tinker? I thought you preferred him doing this sort of thing. Serving and all.”

“I, uh… I gave him the night off.” This, at least, was the whole truth. Shrugging, Draco grinned. “Reckon I can manage to pour two glasses of wine by myself.”

Hermione quirked an eyebrow but said nothing, only smiling to herself as she accepted the glass Draco handed her.

“Well,” he drawled, lounging back against the sofa cushions and raising his own glass in her direction, “cheers! And thanks. You know… for the help. Your idea was good. Think it might have made all the difference, actually.” He took a large swallow and gestured for her to do the same.

Hermione paused, the glass at her lips, and for a long, tense moment, Draco held his breath. She smiled then, and he could see that she was genuinely pleased. “Really? Thanks for saying that, Draco. I meant what I said, you know. I really am happy I could help. How are you getting on with it? Any progress? ” 

Draco shrugged lightly. “Yeah. Nearly done. Just checking some final details before I write it up.” _Come on, Granger, just drink the wine._

“Right,” she replied. “Well, if you need any more help, I’ll be around. That was fun.” Taking a sip of her wine at last, she licked her lips. “Mmm. Tastes a bit like… chocolate and… “ She took a second, deeper pull, knitting her brows in momentary concentration. “… cherries! That’s it. Chocolate and cherries. What sort of wine is this, anyway?”

“Cabernet Franc, 1982. Good, isn’t it.” Draco glanced furtively at the mantel clock. Goyle would be there before very long. 

Hermione had bent closer to the table where the bottle stood. Now she peered at the label, murmuring, “Delicious! Domaine de la Chanteleuserie…”

He nodded, his grin turning smug for a moment. “Pinched it from my father’s cellar.” At Hermione’s sudden look of concern, he laughed. “Cellar’s huge. He’ll never miss it.” _Enough conversation. Finish the bloody wine already._ He raised his glass once again. “Bottoms up, Granger. This is the good stuff. You don’t want to let it go to waste.” 

Glancing at the mantel clock, Hermione quirked a tiny grin of her own. “Right. Greg will be here soon.” She tipped her head back, exposing the long, slender line of her throat, and drank down the rest of the wine in three swallows, sighing in deep satisfaction and daintily wiping the corner of her mouth with two fingertips. Then she sank back into the overstuffed chair’s cushions and gazed at him, a faint, beatific smile turning the corners of her mouth up and her lids beginning to flutter.

Watching her intently, Draco could see that the sleeping draught was already taking effect. Increasingly now, there was a glazed, unfocused look about her, her eyelids drooping and her limbs becoming gradually more relaxed. In the seconds just before the glass fell out of her hand and hit the floor, Draco dived for it, setting it securely on the table. By the time he sat back once again, she was sound asleep.

At last. Quickly, he pulled one of the small phials out of his pocket, uncorked it, and extracted the slender dropper. One good squeeze and it was filled with the pale violet elixir. There was no way of knowing in advance just how long it would take before the antidote kicked in– or even, Draco reminded himself grimly, whether it would kick in at all. Nevertheless, he had to try. If this one didn’t do the job, he still had the two back-ups.

With infinite care, although he could feel his hand shaking slightly, he released three drops on her right eyelid and then on her left. Frowning in her sleep as the potion splashed on her skin, Hermione stirred a little but didn’t wake up. Greatly relieved, Draco capped the phial and slipped it back into his jeans pocket. All he could do now was wait. 

Time– and not very much of it, at that– would tell. She would be awake again in mere minutes.

A knock at the door of the suite jolted him out of a blank reverie, and he found Goyle waiting on the other side with the rather inane smile on his face that he seemed to reserve just for Granger. 

“Look, mate,” Draco began in a hushed voice, standing in the doorway and blocking Goyle’s path. “Things may be different tonight and… well… from now on. I’ve decided to call it quits. The prank, I mean. It’s not fair on you or her.”

Taken aback, Goyle looked confused. “What do you mean, not fair on me? That’s daft. She really likes me. I can tell. You can’t fake something like that. Yeah, maybe it was the potion to start with, but it’s different now.” Suddenly, he looked rather desperate. “What’ve you done, Malfoy?!”

Draco felt himself growing exasperated and not a little annoyed. Yeah, okay, Goyle was likely to be a bit upset. But he hadn’t any right to be, had he, not really– considering he knew from the off that this was a prank, nothing more. A little entertainment and a way for Draco to pay Granger back for being the annoying, know-it-all bint that she was. Hell, Goyle himself had said that he was in it to get laid, period. If, contrary to that declaration, he’d already had feelings for her before the prank, it was the dumb fuck’s own fault if he’d allowed them to grow. He’d known all along that it would come to an end eventually.

“Relax. I’ve given her an antidote. You knew I would do at some point. If she acts the same after this, we’ll know that her feelings for you are real and not just the result of the potion. If not, well…” He trailed off, letting the rest of that sentence hang in the air, its sentiment unspoken but clear as day. Best not to mention the third scenario: that the antidote could simply fail, in which case Granger’s behaviour would prove nothing.

In the meantime, Goyle was studying Draco, his eyes narrowed a fraction. It had taken him a while to fully process something Draco had said several minutes before. “Since when do you care about Hermione’s feelings?” he asked abruptly.

Now it was Draco’s turn to be taken aback, but only for a moment. Recovering himself, he shrugged. “I don’t. But you know Granger. If this thing goes on any longer and she finds out, she’ll blab about it to the whole school, starting with McGonagall, and I’ll very probably be expelled. Don’t much fancy that prospect. Better to stop it now, whilst it’s still… you know… a joke.”

Not that _she_ would _ever_ see it that way, he realised with leaden certainty. 

_What the fuck had he been thinking?_

Of course, there was no satisfactory answer to that question, and dwelling on his own stupidity wasn’t going to change anything. Things would have to play out however they would; he could only hope that the antidote he’d just administered, or at least one of the other two, would put an end to this farce. In the meantime, Draco had no choice but to step aside and allow Goyle entry. Hermione had awakened only seconds before. As soon as she spotted him, she broke into a delighted smile, and Draco’s heart sank.

Goyle’s large, round face was creased nearly in half by his own smile as he held out his arm to Hermione. The quick glance he gave Draco had an exultant _See? Told you!_ written all over it. 

Twining her arm through his, Hermione turned her head to glance back at Draco as they made their way to the door. 

“Thanks again for the wine,” she called over her shoulder. “Oh, and… do let me know if you want to discuss your project some more. Maybe when I get back, if you’re here, or tomorrow morning…?”

All he could do was nod dumbly and raise a half-hearted hand in reply. While he wasn’t certain of the time frame the antidote would employ before results were definitive, he had a sinking feeling that this first formula had failed miserably. Hermione’s light, musical giggle as the door closed behind her and Goyle felt like the last nail being hammered into the coffin lid. Draco found he didn’t much fancy being the one trapped inside.

 

 

*

 

 

_Tick tick tick…_

The sound of the mantel clock had seemed to grow exponentially louder and more irritating as the level of wine in the bottle had dropped. There was half a glass left now, and doggedly, Draco poured it out. 

Goyle and Hermione had left at nine o’clock, and now it was nearly twelve. What in Merlin’s name had they been doing for the past three hours? Never mind, he decided, images of the Slytherin dormitories and carefully cast silencing spells springing to mind. There were some things about which it was better to remain blissfully ignorant.

_Tick tick tick…_

Five unfashionably full glasses of his father’s fine French wine had obligingly brought Draco along through the various stages of intoxication, beginning with a delightfully liberating euphoria that had blotted everything out, leaving him floating on a booze-soaked cloud without much thought about anything. Then, an overwhelming need to sleep had overtaken him, and he had awakened a short while later to find that he’d drooled all over the sofa cushions. One failed attempt at getting to his feet was enough to set him firmly back where he had begun. Fuck the mess. He’d see to it later. And besides, the kitchenette had decided to play tricks on him by duplicating itself. One looked just as real as the other; safer not to try approaching either for the time being. 

Now, empty glass in hand, he was feeling overwhelmingly morose. Life. It was all bollocks in the end, wasn’t it. No matter what you did. Follow your parents– fucking _idolise_ your father, for fuck’s sake– and where did it get you? In the shit, that’s where. Getting sucked into the machinations of a fucking loony and bugger-all you could do about it… watching your friends die and somehow not going tits up yourself… and now you’re right back where so much of that shit happened, and for what? To appease your father, still pathetically trying to play all the angles and still full of shit, and your mother, who desperately wants things to be normal and still doesn’t get that nothing will be that sort of “normal” ever again. 

And the really hilarious bit? It had all been for a stupid, arse-brained lie. He had to laugh, really. A LIE. And all of them, every last pure-blooded one of the old guard and their offspring, had bought into it. _All of us happy to carry on being brainless twats, thanks very much._ That it was a lie had, time and again, been made patently obvious to him, though he hadn’t wanted to see it, preferring instead to cling to the time-honoured myths.

Granger had shot every one of those myths to hell, damn her. And she had hardly done it just in the last six months. Looking back, he knew she’d done it quite systematically over a period of seven and a half years. He just hadn’t wanted to know.

 _Ah, fuck._ If he had a Galleon for all the things he’d got monumentally wrong about Granger, he thought with a bitter laugh, he’d have rather a nice piece of change in his pocket. The latest proof: she’d helped him. Eager to do it, too. Was ready to do it again, even. And her suggestion had been damned useful. Bang to rights, he’d be willing to bet.

He couldn’t quite work out why she was being so bloody generous; he’d never given her the slightest reason to be. And yet, apparently, she could forgive and move on. He didn’t understand it, but there was no other way to explain her behaviour. He was pretty damned sure he wouldn’t have been so forthcoming in her place. He had a hard enough time on those rare occasions when he allowed painful, rancorous thoughts of the past to surface. Forgiveness– for anyone, especially himself–wasn’t even on the map.

_Tick tick tick…_

Nearly half twelve now. Still no sign of Granger and no way to know whether the antidote had worked. Glancing at the residue of wine in his glass, his thoughts turned to that low-cut, burgundy velvet top, and he wondered darkly if even now, it lay on the floor of Goyle’s room, tossed there in the heat of passion after she’d given him leave to explore and enjoy what lay hidden so enticingly beneath. Sprawled on the sofa, his head and all his limbs incredibly heavy, suddenly, Draco found himself captive to a disturbing series of images that played themselves out in his head like a pornographic film, and for once, not one he particularly wanted to see. 

And that was another thing, sod it all! When had Granger become a… a _woman?_ And how had such a startling fact so completely eluded him until not even three weeks ago? It was baffling, disturbing, and strangely exciting all at once. Following the forceful erections he’d been enduring in class while watching her flirt with Goyle, images of her in various stages of undress had begun colouring his nightly dreams, leaving him with copious amounts of their sticky after-effects on more mornings than he cared to count.

 _Bugger. Let the bloody antidote work. **Please**_. Shutting his eyes, he pressed fingertips to his temples to calm the throbbing that had begun there.

His eyes flew open at the sound of the door unlocking itself after receiving the password. And then Hermione came in, sighing and smiling giddily as she plopped down in the armchair. 

_SHIT._

 

 

*

 

 

6 March  
Saturday, late morning

 

Shafts of bright morning light streamed in through narrow openings in the drapes that Tinker made sure to draw shut every evening, hitting Draco in the face as he lay, semi-comatose, in bed.

Only seconds after the light pried one reluctant eyelid open and then the other, a stab of pain hit him between the eyes, radiating to both temples and clear around his skull to the back of his head. Draco groaned softly, the hangover pain too intense even to roll over. He lay there immobilised, feeling as if his head had grown to the size of a watermelon and was on the verge of exploding. Or imploding. He wasn’t entirely sure which scenario was the more imminent.

Not that it mattered. Everything had gone to shit, and it was all his own fault. When had this rather brilliant joke he’d engineered stopped being hilariously funny? He tried thinking back, but even forming coherent thoughts seemed to be beyond his capabilities just now. 

For several agonising moments, he simply lay there, his head throbbing miserably, wondering how long it would take before either Tinker or Granger found his body. One of the two of them was bound to turn up eventually. Tinker would surely miss receiving his instructions for the day. Granger might take a bit longer, but even she would likely start wondering about him, once his absence in classes and at meals was noted sufficiently often. 

Gradually and unbidden now, the answer to his question began to coalesce in his sluggish, aching brain. The prank had stopped being funny when the thought of them together had really begun winding him up, the actual sight of them pawing each other making him want to hurl. But why? Why should he care one way or the other? Yeah, of course, she’d been looking damned good lately– every red-blooded male student at Hogwarts was secretly a bit envious of Goyle– but envy wasn’t irritation such as he was experiencing, nor was it revulsion. Everyone else had laughed, once they’d got over the shock. Not him, not anymore.

And there was something else as well. Granger had been acting like such a _girl._ ‘Hell,’ he thought, frowning and then wincing at the pain his grimace had caused. All that swanning about, it was just… stupid. It was the love potion, he knew that, but somehow, he didn’t like to see it. Amusing at first, eventually it had made him feel bad, somehow, vaguely discomfited. It wasn’t dignified. It wasn’t intelligent. It wasn’t _Granger._

Not the Granger he’d known for half his life. A bloke could have a real conversation with her and it would actually make sense. Doubtful that Goyle appreciated that quality in her, of course, considering it was a challenge for him just to string together a coherent sentence of more than five words. Challenges for Granger were something else entirely. She relished them. In fact, her tenacity defending an idea had driven him absolutely spare at times. She’d never let him get away with anything. That wasn’t something he could say about most people. He realised that he rather liked it.

In fact, if he were going to be really honest, he rather liked _her._ Draco’s eyes opened very wide suddenly, despite the pain. Bloody hell. He hadn’t just been annoyed and put off his lunch, seeing them together. 

He’d been jealous.

_Jealous…_

Fuck. 

He _liked_ her. He must do, or else he wouldn’t be feeling like such utter crap right now, and not just from the drink, though this hangover was the very devil. No, there was more to it. 

Just then, the sound of a throat being cleared interrupted his ruminations. Cracking open an eye, Draco spotted Tinker waiting respectfully, his eyes huge with concern.

“Is Master Draco ill? Can Tinker bring Master anything?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers, Draco squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and inhaled deeply, then forced himself to look at the little house-elf.

“Yes,” he managed to croak. “Hangover potion. In the loo. Cupboard above the sink. Brown bottle. Quickly!”

Nodding, Tinker scampered off, reappearing with the bottle seconds later. Snapping his fingers, he Conjured a spoon, but Draco shook his head. The hell with a spoon. Grabbing the bottle from the house-elf, he wrenched off the cap and downed a huge swig, falling back on the pillows with a groan.

‘Thanks,” he mumbled weakly, and then, at Tinker’s questioning look, he added, “ _No food_. Just some tea. Please.”

With a hasty “Yes, Master Draco!” the diminutive house-elf disappeared, leaving Draco to wallow in his misery, made even more wretched by the spectre of his growing dilemma.

The antidote hadn’t worked. He would have to try the back-ups. What if they didn’t work either? If both of them failed as well, he was fucked. It would be back to the drawing board, all the while having to watch the disaster he’d created continue to play itself out in ever more disgusting spectacles.

Granger. Bloody hell, he actually had _feelings_ for her. 

If he’d deliberately set out to alienate her, he couldn’t have done a better, more thorough job of it. He couldn’t very well confess; that would blow up in his face. She would hate him for sure. What woman wants to be made a fool of, and so publicly too? No way would she forgive something like this. 

It had begun as a mere prank, something to amuse him while cutting her down to size a bit. He hadn’t considered what the real consequences of such public humiliation could be– for her, but also for him, if she ever discovered what he’d done. And he had a terrible, sinking feeling that somehow, she would. 

He hadn’t thought about any of that, because at the time, he hadn’t cared. Not about her or her feelings. The idea had appealed and he’d gone ahead with it, never imagining his own feelings might change.

And bugger… what about Goyle? ‘Badly done,’ a small, irritating, impossible-to-ignore voice inside his head whispered.

Oh man. He was screwed. Seriously screwed.

 

 

*

 

 

Confirmation of his strong suspicion that the antidote had failed was swift in coming. Draco concluded ruefully that a vengeful god or two must be determined to rub his nose in the messy fallout of his backfired scheme: as if things weren’t bad enough already, now it seemed as if everywhere he turned, there Granger and Goyle were, even more nauseatingly demonstrative with their affections than they had been earlier.

The worst was having to be around them in his own living quarters. Before this, Granger had confined her contact with Goyle to their dates or to revolting public displays in corridors, the Great Hall, or classrooms. Now, apparently, she felt free to entertain her boyfriend in the space she shared with Draco, taking away his last bastion of escape and sanity. This she was doing on a fairly regular basis: it seemed he now had two roommates instead of just one. Wherever Granger was, it was a fairly safe bet that Goyle would be there as well. No more quiet evenings to read or study in the privacy of their sitting room. 

For one thing, she had begun tutoring Goyle in an attempt to help him bring his grades up to speed and prepare for NEWTs. Nearly every weeknight, there they would be, sharing the sofa with their heads bent over their books, her small hand in his or resting lightly on his arm as they worked. Sometimes she would playfully twine her fingers in his hair. Their voices would mingle, an occasional giggle insinuating itself into the low murmur of their conversation. 

And that was just when they were studying. Granger had suddenly become curiously domesticated, flitting in and out of the kitchenette to whip up little snacks for Goyle. Even more astonishing, she had enlisted Tinker’s help in providing ever more lavish treats for him. No objections to the house-elf now, it would appear. And clearly, she neither noticed nor cared that Goyle’s waistline was expanding at a rather alarming rate.

Fuck’s sake, what was she now, his mum? The whole thing was ludicrous. Forced to retreat into his bedroom to avoid having to see and hear them, Draco felt trapped and resentful. And worried. When the hell would he have a chance to try out one of the other antidotes if Goyle were always around? _He_ certainly didn’t want the potion reversed. No doubt he was thrilled that the first antidote had failed. But for Draco, leaving things as they now were was simply not an option. Because eventually, one way or another, what he’d done would come to light. And then Granger would kill him. Not exactly an auspicious scenario, considering the desires he secretly nursed.

That he did indeed hope for a chance with her was still fairly astonishing to him. Like it or not, though, the feelings were definitely there, and they transcended mere physical attraction– surprising enough in itself, considering that he’d always thought her so plain, almost asexual, in the past. No, he had to admit it: she was actually surprisingly beautiful, but more than that, she was… _interesting_. Intriguing. A conundrum. He wanted to unravel her, figure her out. She was unlike anybody else. Moreover, she was a walking contradiction of everything he’d always believed. 

He still found himself marvelling at her willingness to help him with his “project.” Looking back, though, it certainly wasn’t the first time in the last six months that she’d ventured a cautiously friendly interest in something he’d been working on, or tried engaging him in a conversation, when it would have been easier, considering the shared animosity of the past seven years, to carry on having as little to do with him as possible. Of course, he’d always nipped such overtures in the bud. Far easier to act on habit than actually go to the trouble of getting to know her. In fact, up to now, he’d been quite sure he didn’t _want_ to get to know her and had not been terribly subtle in communicating such feelings. Now he was just as sure that he wanted to reverse that message– or at least to have the chance to try, assuming he hadn’t already blown it completely.

It seemed to him, reflecting on his current situation, that he had two tasks that needed doing immediately: one, he had to find an opportunity to administer a second phial of antidote. Then there was Task Number Two: ingratiating himself with Granger to the point that she would refrain from inflicting severe bodily harm if she ever did find out what he’d done, and perhaps, if he were really lucky, that she’d view him in a favourable enough light to at least _consider_ going out with him. With his natural charms, once would be all he’d require, he felt certain. Fairly certain, anyway.

To that end, he began making a concerted effort to be… well… _nice._ To wit:

In the mornings, Draco began leaving a tray with a large cup of freshly brewed coffee, a plate of buttered toast and small pots of jam and marmalade on the table in the sitting room for Hermione to find. Or rather, he’d instructed Tinker to do this, not having the faintest notion of how to make coffee himself and not wanting to be bothered preparing toast. Besides, this was what house-elves were for. This way, he could do something considerate for Hermione and make Tinker feel useful at the same time. Win-win, right? And all credit to him. It _was_ his idea, after all.

On the first morning, Hermione overslept and literally ran through the sitting room without a second glance at anything. Watching from the kitchenette, where he was enjoying his own coffee and toast, Draco felt a small stab of disappointment.

On the second morning, Hermione came into the sitting room early, dressed and ready to leave for breakfast in the Great Hall. Putting down her satchel, she paused, surveying the fragrant, steaming cup and the toast slathered with butter and jam, just the way she liked it. One eyebrow rose in question and she glanced around. Draco was seated on the sofa with his own tray, studiously avoiding her gaze and a tiny, almost shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

And then their eyes met. Smiling back, she nodded and sat down beside him, reaching for a slice of toast. 

“Mmm,” she said, her words muffled as she chewed. “What a lovely idea! Thank Tinker for me, would you? He’s so kind!” Then, taking a gulp of the coffee, she glanced at her watch. “Oh gosh! Look at the time! We’re going to be late, Malfoy!” Jumping up, she snatched her satchel and vanished out the door, leaving Draco in her wake. 

Damn. Well, he wasn’t about to give up. He made sure that the tray of coffee and toast continued to appear every morning like clockwork. But now it was clearly time to try another, more direct tack, one that wouldn’t depend on the correct assumptions being made.

So it was that on the Wednesday morning following his rather eye-opening weekend binge, Draco hovered tensely outside Hermione’s bedroom door, the sounds of her moving about within telling him she would emerge before long. As luck would have it, he sprang back, executing an ungainly flying leap onto the sofa, just as she opened the door and walked through to the sitting room. Settling herself in the armchair, she took a sip of her coffee, which Draco had made sure was just hot enough and very light, the way she liked it, and began nibbling on a triangle of buttered toast. The two of them sat in companionable silence, Draco glancing furtively at her every now and then, until finally she checked her watch and rose to leave.

Downing the last of his coffee, he gave a loud, contented sigh, slanting a quick look at her out of the corner of his eye. Just as she reached the door, he cleared his throat. 

“Have a nice day, Hermione.”

Hermione stopped dead in her tracks, regarding Draco as if he had grown another head. “What?”

Shrugging, he turned an innocent grin on her. “I said, have a nice day.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, moving a step closer and scrutinising him carefully. “Are you feeling all right?” 

Not precisely the reaction he’d hoped for. Disgruntled, he muttered, “Quite all right, thanks.”

Staring at him for just a moment longer, as if the words of some hidden truth would suddenly materialise on his forehead, Hermione shook her head, finally, and left. 

Fail.

The following evening, Draco made sure to stop by Hermione’s table in the library. “Evening, Granger,” he said cordially. “Interesting reading?”

Startled by his voice, Hermione put down her quill and sat back. He could see surprise and just a hint of suspicion in her eyes. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

Hah. So much for expressing interest, genuine or otherwise, in a woman’s intellectual pursuits. Did a bloke always have to have an ulterior motive? ‘Well,’ a small voice inside reminded him, ‘you can’t exactly blame her for thinking so where you’re concerned.’ ‘Oh, shut up,’ he told himself grumpily, finding a seat several tables away.

FAIL.

The next afternoon, Draco managed to get himself partnered with Hermione in potions, following a hefty bribe to Finnigan, who backed away from his assigned table looking rather like the cat that got the cream. Watching him go, Draco couldn’t help a smug grin of his own.

“Reckon you’re glad to see the back of that arse-brained pillock, yeah?” A perfectly reasonable observation. Even now as an eighth year, it seemed Finnigan could barely avoid self-destructing most days. He was utter rubbish at potions, a walking catastrophe, and everybody knew it.

Nevertheless, Hermione’s eyes widened, a small frown beginning. Hastily, he rephrased. “Er… that is to say… I reckon that for once, you’ll appreciate working with somebody who hasn’t got his head up his arse.” 

She folded her arms, an eyebrow rising slightly. “Meaning you.”

Draco’s grin was cocky. It was only the truth. “Naturally.”

Hermione’s eyebrow rose a tad higher and he could see her mouth twitching. “And… was that actually meant to be some sort of compliment?” 

He shrugged lightly. “Well… yeah.” Obviously.

She laughed out loud now. “To _whom?_ ” Then, shaking her head, she turned back to their shared cauldron, muttering in amusement. 

EPIC FAIL. 

That old fable about the boy who cried wolf would surely have resonated, had Draco been familiar with it. All he knew was, his efforts at engaging Granger had been completely sincere. And in turn, she had been surprised and then suspicious of every one of them– or at best, amused. The simple fact was, she didn’t believe him. Apparently, it was inconceivable to her that he could treat her cordially, except on the very rare occasion that he needed her help.

Ah, well. He would keep trying, even in the face of her scepticism. He had nothing to lose at this point. No, that wasn’t true. In fact, he still had a shitload to lose, and right now, his first priority must be slipping that antidote to her. Every day that passed with Granger still glued adoringly to Goyle made the impending explosion that would surely follow full disclosure of the facts that much more catastrophic.


	4. Chapter 4

Part Four

 

 

 

 

His chance came sooner than he’d expected, offering the hope of some relief at last. It was now the following Friday evening, another week having passed– another week of watching Granger blow kisses at Goyle in class, and, on a memorable Thursday evening, seductively devour a raspberry ice lolly after dinner in the Great Hall. 

Goyle’s face had turned puce, watching that agile tongue slither around the frozen confection and then tenderly caress it with long, sinuous strokes, until she’d slid it, whole, into her mouth, fastening her berry-stained lips around its base. Her cheeks had hollowed out as she’d sucked, and then she’d drawn her mouth slowly up the ice lolly until the frozen treat popped out once again, a good deal smaller. In fact, Goyle’s hadn’t been the only face turning colours, watching the show. Although it had been meant for him, a good portion of the student populace had been equally captivated, quite a few of the male students clutching at their crotches beneath their robes in an agony of delight and frustration. 

Draco himself had hardly been immune. Nearly doubled over, his cock painfully hard and screaming for release, he’d gritted his teeth, vowing to put an end to this self-inflicted torture once and for all. He would _have_ to find a way to give her that antidote. If not, she would be the death of half the school before the term was out. And it wouldn’t be a pretty way to go.

The next evening, it was oddly quiet in the Heads’ suite, Hermione’s usual busy preparations for a Friday-night date conspicuously absent. Draco was sprawled on the sofa, the most recent issue of _Which Broomstick?_ lying open across his lap. He was dozing comfortably, the article he’d been perusing dull enough to render him unconscious fairly quickly. Tinker had carefully extracted the mug of tea from his fingers just before it fell to the floor, and now, soft, rolling snores emanated from the nest of cushions in which he lay.

Pausing on her way into the kitchenette, Hermione regarded the sofa’s sleeping occupant. A tiny, cryptic smile fleetingly lifted the corners of her mouth, and then she shook her head and continued on her way.

Some time later, Draco woke up, stretching his stiff limbs and yawning widely. The suite remained as quiet as it had been earlier. Sitting up, he peered in the direction of Hermione’s room. Her door was open a crack, and the light was on. To his surprise, she was still there– he could see her shadow occasionally moving across the floor– but there wasn’t any noise to speak of. 

He glanced at the mantel clock. Just gone ten. Surely, if she’d had plans to see Goyle, she’d have left already. The fact that she was still there in her room meant that at last, he had the chance he’d been waiting for. Suddenly electrified, he sat up, newfound energy coursing through his veins and speeding his pulse. Another furtive glance in the direction of her room satisfied him that she was occupied and not likely to notice or care what he might be getting up to.

A phial of freshly made sleeping draught was in his desk drawer. He slipped it into his jeans pocket and then walked quickly to the kitchenette, hoping he could get everything ready without drawing any attention to himself.

Moving stealthily, he retrieved a pair of porcelain mugs from the cupboard, filling them with water and then spooning in generous amounts of brown powder from a nearby tin. Last of all, he added a dose of the sleeping draught to the slightly smaller mug. A quick wave of his wand and both mugs were brimming with steaming, seductively aromatic cocoa. 

“Granger,” he called. “You awake?”

A moment’s silence, and then Hermione poked her head out of her room.

“What is it?” she asked curiously. 

“Oh, well, nothing much, really,” he lied. “Noticed you’re still here, is all. No hot date tonight? Where’s Goyle, then?”

Hermione smiled dreamily, suddenly starry-eyed at the mere mention of her boyfriend. It took all of Draco’s self-restraint not to roll his eyes and groan in disgust. Instead, he merely smiled pleasantly, waiting for her reply.

“Well?” he said eventually.

“What?” His question seemed to have jolted her out of a daydream. “Oh! Yes! Sorry,” she giggled. “I do tend to go off a bit whenever I’m thinking about Gregory.”

It was stomach-churning stuff, but Draco held on, biting his tongue and simply nodding. 

“Actually, he’s feeling a bit manky tonight– some sort of stomach flu, I think– so I told him to stay in bed. I thought I’d bring him some soup in a little while. Maybe Tinker could help me with that?” she added brightly.

“Oh yeah, ‘course he could. But…” Draco paused, made a decision, and then rushed on while he still had the nerve. “Well, see… there’s something I’ve been wanting to say to you.”

Hermione’s eyes opened a bit wider and her brows rose slightly, but she remained silent. Draco took this as a signal to plunge ahead. Gesturing for her to sit down, he perched on the arm of the sofa.

“Right.” He cleared his throat nervously. What he was about to say would not come easily, but it had to be done. “I… well… Reckon I owe you an apology.”

The words “apology” and “Draco Malfoy” were, quite frankly, bizarre and completely incompatible bedfellows in Hermione’s experience. Now her face registered shock and frank disbelief. A faint “what?” was all she could muster.

The look of incredulity on her face was enough to make Draco’s already spindly courage shrivel and turn in on itself like a plant wilting in a sudden deep freeze.

“Yeah, see… uh…” he babbled, grasping at whatever pathetic straws he could find. “I, um… I gave Tinker the night off. Yeah, that’s it. Just remembered. Sorry. No soup for Goyle, I reckon.” He gave a feeble little laugh and shrugged.

“ _That’s_ what you wanted to apologise for,” Hermione said flatly. She had the oddest expression on her face now. Somehow, she seemed almost… disappointed.

“Well… yeah,” he replied lamely, and again, looking at her, Draco had the vague impression that he’d missed the boat somehow, that an opportunity had just slipped through his fingers. “Sorry,” he repeated rather aimlessly. “Staying in, then?” 

Daft question. Utterly gormless. He was losing brain function by the nanosecond, apparently, judging by the drivel that was spewing from his mouth.

She nodded silently.

“Made some cocoa. Fancy a cup?”

Again, a silent nod. Well, that was better than a lot of alternatives he could imagine. At least she was still in the room.

Hurrying into the kitchenette, he returned with the two mugs of hot chocolate, setting them down on the table and nudging one of them a bit closer to Hermione. 

With the cup raised to her lips, only her eyes were visible, and they were unreadable now. Not knowing what she was thinking was unsettling, but for a moment, hope fluttered nervously in his chest as well. Maybe, if she did find out what he’d done to her, she could forgive him after all. She’d already shown she had the capacity for it. The mere fact that she’d been so tolerant the past six months, even friendly when he’d allowed it, was proof positive in light of their history. Then again, maybe it would be more than even someone like Hermione could forgive.

As he was ruminating on all this, she’d been drinking her cocoa, and now she licked her lips, sighing with satisfaction. 

“Thanks, Draco. Gosh…” She yawned, patting her mouth delicately. “I feel so sleepy all of a sudden…”

 _Draco_. Didn’t sound quite so jarring anymore on her lips. Sounded rather nice, even.

Mentally shaking himself out of this latest reverie, Draco sat back to watch the now-familiar spectacle unfold. Before long, she would slip into a deep sleep.

This time, it took less than a minute before she was sleeping soundly. As before, he carefully lifted her legs onto the sofa so that she would recline less awkwardly and then quickly drew a small phial out of his pocket. Positioning the full dropper over her closed eyelids, he squeezed gently, releasing precisely three drops of the pale violet liquid onto each eye. 

It had to work this time. It simply _had_ to. He’d be well and truly buggered if it didn’t, because with every failure, the chances of the next decoction working became ever more slim.

Settling back into the armchair, he waited. 

And waited.

 

*

 

 

_Be as thou wast wont to be;  
See as thou wast wont to see…_

 

The passing minutes seemed interminable to Draco, who found himself perspiring lightly in a mild panic of apprehension, despite the fact that their sitting room tended to be chilly in winter. 

Eventually, though, Hermione began to stir. Draco sat up very straight in the armchair, his eyes trained on the recumbent girl. Slowly, she stretched out her arms, yawning and sighing gently, then settled back, her lids fluttering briefly and then sliding shut once again. Still sound asleep, she smiled, clearly in the throes of a delightful dream under whose spell she very much wanted to stay.

“Greg…” she sighed, and then she giggled. “Oh, yes… _yes_ …”

Fuck. 

No way. 

NO.

It couldn’t be. Not again. Bewildered and distraught, Draco fell back in the armchair, distractedly raking a hand through his hair and gaping at Hermione, who continued to smile and murmur brokenly, still in the thrall of her dream about Goyle.

 _Goyle._ Shit. What he’d love to do to that big plonker right about now! For about thirty seconds, Draco entertained the very satisfying fantasy of delivering a haymaker right to Goyle’s big, fat nose.

And then, reality– far more sobering and impossible to ignore– returned, hitting him squarely between the eyes. Once again, he had failed. Granger was still mad for Goyle. Maybe he’d never be able to reverse the potion’s effects! All the legends concerning this very ancient love potion were true after all.

Moving closer, he leaned over and peered into Hermione’s face. Her features were relaxed, a faint smile on her lips, and her chest rose and fell gently with each rhythmic breath. Why was she still asleep? Sod it all, that was what he didn’t understand! In the past, once the drops had been administered, she had awakened fairly soon after. Maybe he’d got the proportions of the sleeping draught wrong this time. Too much asphodel, maybe? Whatever it was, she was in a far deeper sleep state than she’d ever been in before, and serious panic was starting to clutch at him. 

Crap, he’d really cocked it up this time. Maybe he should call Madam Pomfrey. No, forget that idea. He’d be balls-deep in all sorts of shit if any of this ever got out. And it would do, no doubt on that score. One thing Madam Pomfrey was not generally known for was a sense of discretion if she suspected anything untoward had caused a student’s illness. 

Merlin. What the fuck was he going to do? This was starting to look really serious. What if he’d put her into a sodding _coma?_

_Breathe. It’s going to be okay. Talk to her. Just… bring her round gradually. Yeah, right. Bring her round. I’m so fucked._

Just then, Hermione stirred once again, sighing quietly, though her eyes remained closed. The movements were involuntary, Draco realised, and he sat back on his heels, crestfallen. 

“Mmm…” she murmured then, licking her lips and then swallowing convulsively. “Greg…”

Bloody hell, this thing was getting worse by the second. He didn’t know how much more he could take. 

Standing abruptly, Draco began pacing the narrow space between one end of the sofa and the other, agitatedly running a hand through his hair, causing it to stick out in small spikes, and then pressing fingers to his temples, which had begun throbbing painfully. Periodically he would stop and stare at Hermione, who remained prone on the sofa and quite deeply asleep.

At last, he dropped to his knees next to her and simply watched as she slept. Her breathing remained easy and regular, her features relaxed, and every once in a while, her lips would turn up slightly in the beginnings of a smile. 

Gods. What had he done? Messed about with very old magic that was far more potent than he’d realised, that’s what, and– _holy shit!_ Draco felt his insides turning to ice water– maybe even caused a fellow student to suffer brain damage in the process. It had been a practical joke, a prank, but it had gone way too far. If she didn’t wake up soon, he would have no choice but to seek help. Merlin only knew what the consequences would be. Expulsion, almost certainly. But that would be nothing compared to his father’s wrath.

Patches of perspiration had sprouted under his arms and he could feel the sweat on the back of his neck and beneath the fringe of hair falling over his forehead. His heart in his throat, he reached out, resting his palm on the back of her hand and then carefully, gently, allowing his fingers to close around hers. 

In that moment, things seemed to slow to a stop, and he felt, suddenly, as if he had ceased to breathe altogether. Her small hand was soft and warm in his, and this close up, there was the most enticing scent of apricot and mimosa radiating from her skin and hair. Beneath the delicate lids, he could see her eyes moving in dreams, their long, dark lashes sweeping the tops of pale, lightly freckled cheeks.

Draco girded himself, clearing his throat and swallowing hard. 

“Look, Granger,” he began, not entirely sure of where he was going with this, but knowing for certain that he needed to do it and he needed to do it now.

“Shit, Gr– _Hermione_ ,” he began again. _Where the hell do I start?_ “Look. There’s something I need to tell you. I do… I do want to say sorry. Not about that stuff from before. That was all bollocks. I mean to say… well… all term, you’ve been… you’ve honestly been pretty decent, considering. But I… I didn’t really give you a fair chance. I never liked you. And I hated that I’d got stuck living and working with you.”

He stopped for a moment, long enough to scrutinise her closely. She hadn’t moved a muscle. Taking a deep breath, he went on.

“But you’re not so bad, really. I mean to say… you’re all right. I see that now. So… I’m sorry for… well, you know. All of it, really. The lot. You didn’t deserve any of it. Ever. And…” _Fuck. Can I do this?_ He could feel himself perspiring freely now. “And there’s something else. Something worse.” 

He paused again, gathering himself. Beneath his gaze, Hermione slept on, her brow furrowing almost imperceptibly for a second and then relaxing again. 

“See, it’s like this: about a month ago, around Valentine’s Day, I… I had the daft idea of… well… playing a prank. On you. Because… well… just because. So I… I gave you this love potion. I’d researched it and everything. Very old magic. So you’d fall madly in love with the first person you saw when you woke up. I made sure it was Goyle. He offered to do it, see, ‘cos… he, uh… he said he wanted to sh–… well… truth is, I think he fancied you. Poor sod, he didn’t notice that people were laughing. Once they’d got over being shocked, anyway. Or maybe he didn’t care. I reckon he was just happy to have you any way he could get you. But then… hell, I don’t know… something happened. I didn’t twig to it at first, but… I don’t know, suddenly it just wasn’t funny anymore. It was just… well…” 

Draco squeezed his eyes shut his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger as his headache began to pound even more wretchedly. 

“Look,” he gritted out, feeling overwhelmingly tired suddenly. “What I did was really awful, I know that, and I expect you’ll never speak to me again. I’m not even going to ask you to forgive me, because I know you won’t. Not ever. I’ve been trying to fix things, I really have, but so far, nothing’s worked. And… and there’s one more thing.”

Hardest bit of all, but hell, he’d said this much. Might as well go for broke. Confession was supposed to be good for the soul, assuming he had one. She couldn’t hear him anyway. 

“A lot of the blokes were a bit envious. I was as well. More than a bit. Reckon you’d get a good laugh out of that one if you could hear me, yeah? It’s true, though. I was jealous. Of Goyle. I couldn’t stand seeing you with him. Because…” Here his voice dropped very low and he looked away. “… Because I wanted you for myself. There. I’ve said it. Not that it matters. But… well… I reckon that’s all of it. And,” he added quickly, “don’t worry, Hermione. If I can’t get you to wake up, I’ll fetch Madam Pomfrey and she’ll take care of you. You’ll be all right.”

“I’d better be.”

 

 

*

 

 

_I’d better be?_

The words had all the sting of ice water dousing Draco’s face and numbing his senses. For a few seconds, stunned, he stared at Hermione mutely, his mouth falling open in profound disbelief.

“What the hell…” was all he could manage.

She gazed back at him, her features composed and calm, but he could tell that it was a very controlled calm before a very big, very nasty storm that threatened to blow wide open any second. Cold fury best described what was facing him at the moment.

She’d been awake. For part of the time, at least, if not for all of it. And she’d heard. _Everything_. She must have done. 

She _knew._

Oh shit. _Shit shit shit_. He had spilled his guts. Expulsion for sure.

Then another realisation hit. If she _had_ been awake and heard everything, then clearly… fucking hell, he thought with a measure of awe, she must have deliberately set out to trick him. 

But why?

She knew more than what he’d just told her. Something else was going on. He couldn’t be sure exactly what, at this point. His brain felt sluggish, unable to piece anything together in a way that made sense. 

“Granger, what–” he began, but she held a hand up. By now, she was sitting up ramrod straight, glaring at him. 

“Don’t. Talk.” Her voice was harsh. “I already knew what you’d done. That’s right.” She nodded with a grim smile. “I’ve known for a whole week. Goyle told me.”

“You mean…” Draco faltered and then one of the puzzle pieces clicked into place with a bang. The first antidote must have worked after all. Otherwise…

And then the other part of what she’d said hit home. 

“Goyle? _Goyle_ told you? I don’t–”

She nodded, speaking pleasantly enough, her tone controlled, as if she were patiently explaining something to a confused child. “Yes. We were out together last Friday night– you remember, after you and I had that very nice glass of wine together– and suddenly, gosh, it was just so strange… suddenly, I looked at Goyle and I had no idea what I was doing there with him or why! I mean, I had no clue at all. I was terribly confused. Felt a right fool, actually. Funny, isn’t it.” 

Her brief laughter tinkled like shards of broken glass. It was painful to hear. Breathing deeply, Draco squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and then forced himself to look at her again.

“I just couldn’t understand it,” she continued. “It was the weirdest thing. Goyle got horribly embarrassed. Turned quite red in the face. And then he told me everything.”

So Goyle had grassed him out. Well, he couldn’t really be blamed, in the circumstances. Draco knew he’d have done the same. Still, he had to know…

“What exactly did he tell you?”

Hermione sat back, gracefully crossing one leg over the other, and folded her hands over her knee. “That I’d been the subject of conversation at a poker game. That, among other lovely observations, the general consensus was that I needed a good shagging to… how was it put? To ‘fuck the superior attitude right out of me.’ Something like that.” She smiled sweetly at Draco. “Sound familiar?”

 _Bugger._ Goyle had told her _that?_ Trust that brainless   
twat to blab the entire conversation _verbatim_. 

Draco felt the bile rising in his throat and couldn’t stop it spewing out. “And did he tell you that he volunteered for the job?” 

Hermione’s smile turned glacial. “He did. It can’t have been easy, but yes, he admitted that. He also said it was really because–”

“He fancied you. Yeah. I know,” Draco muttered darkly. Already, he could see that Goyle was off the hook, whereas he was clearly hanging helplessly, all trussed up and about to be roasted. 

“It was rather sweet, really,” she mused. “Poor Goyle. He expected I’d be really angry with him.”

“And… you’re not?” Suddenly, Draco felt the flimsiest spark of hope. Maybe…

“At first I was. Of course. But then I realised. Goyle played a part, yes, but he hadn’t engineered this whole thing.” Her voice had fallen to a dangerous hiss and now her eyes narrowed into livid, little slits. “That was _you_.

“How could you do something so sneaky and low?? And _dangerous!_ Oh well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, really. I’ve always known you hate me, and that hasn’t changed, has it. You made your feelings pretty clear right from the off in September, and honestly, I wasn’t keen either, not at first. But I was really hoping maybe things could be different this year. That maybe the war had changed you. I honestly thought–” 

“But I _have_ changed! I mean, well… yeah. A bit, anyway,” he protested feebly. His carefully cultivated defences had been blown to bits, and now he felt flustered, off his guard, shreds of thoughts scattering to the winds. Glib comebacks and sarcasm were useless, anyway. They would only serve to rub salt in a very raw, suppurating wound.

“And I don’t,” he added quietly, almost to himself. “Not anymore.”

Sitting back amongst the sofa cushions, Hermione raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Don’t what?”

“Hate you. I don’t. Not anymore,” he repeated, so softly now that she had to lean forward, straining, to hear the words. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Hermione seemed to be struggling with something. For a moment, she sat very still, several emotions warring on her face, her eyes huge and liquid, dark with hurt. “Tell me,” she said finally.

“I did tell you. Before. When I thought you were sleeping.” Draco found himself stalling. This was very shaky ground he was treading on suddenly. He’d never been one for sharing feelings. Such an activity wasn’t to be trusted. It was dangerous. And sloppy. Far too many risks.

“I know. But you didn’t _say_ it. Not really.” Hermione surveyed him calmly, impassively, but there was something behind her eyes… a lightening, it seemed– a thinning of the veil of anger…

“I like you, all right?” He felt oddly defensive somehow, almost belligerent in his admission. “You’re… you’re different. I mean, you’re not different, I reckon, not really… but I am. I see you now. You’ve been… you’re… I mean…” He struggled to find the words, which seemed to be lodged in his throat, unwilling to be uttered. “I just like you. A lot, I think.” 

Swallowing hard, he stared down at his hands, an unaccustomed flush creeping up his neck and flooding his face.

And then she smiled. Just the tiniest ghost of a smile, but it briefly warmed her eyes. Then the smile vanished, and the wounded look returned.

“You humiliated me, Malfoy.”

 _Gods, it’s back to “Malfoy.”_ He found that this didn’t please him the way it would have done once.

“You made me a laughingstock in front of the entire school.”

Draco nodded miserably. No point in denying any of it, not at this late stage. And clearly, honesty was going to go a lot further with this girl than a load of cleverly phrased bollocks.

“I know. And I’m sorry. I mean that.” 

“Well, gosh, Malfoy, thanks ever so much, but isn’t it a bit late? What the hell am I supposed to do, now the damage has been done? I could tell, of course. Then everybody would know the whole thing was fake and what a creep you’ve been. I probably should do. But you know what?” She gazed at him defiantly. “I’m not going to. Not to save your miserable skin, but for Goyle. I don’t know if you realise this, but he’s really rather a sweet guy. He told me how great it was, having everybody think I fancied him. People look at him differently now, he said. I can’t take that away from him. Let people think it was true.”

“But…” Draco was confused. She’d said “was.” What did that mean? 

“We’ve agreed a plan,” Hermione went on. “We’re going to break up. In fact, we just did today, supposedly. I’d appreciate it if you’d help spread it around.” She paused, a tacit question in her eyes. 

He nodded. 

“And there’s something else. I need you to help me set Goyle up with Millie Bulstrode. She’s liked him for _ages_. And honestly, I think he rather likes her as well, though he hasn’t realised it yet. They would be great together, I think. Will you?”

Draco nodded once again, and this time, he felt as if a chunk of the weight that had been pressing against his chest had cracked and fallen away and he could breathe a bit more easily.

“One more thing. Well, two, really.” Hermione looked at him sternly now. “You must promise never to play a dirty trick like this on anybody else, ever again. That’s the price for my silence. Will you?”

Draco mumbled his assent. In truth, he was getting off easy, and he knew it. While his first inclination had been to chafe against being told what he could and couldn’t do, this was a far better option than being exposed and facing consequences that had the potential to be a good deal worse.

And then he remembered something and looked at her. She regarded him placidly, a hint of amusement in her eyes.

“What’s the other thing?” 

“That in a week or two, you’ll take me out. And I mean on a proper, very public date, so the whole school knows. Goyle suspected you fancied me, you know,” she added. “He told me so.”

“Bloody hell…” Draco sat back, feeling a bit dazed. How had he known? “What did he say?” 

Hermione laughed, and this time, it was the light, rather musical sound Draco had come to enjoy. “When I told him we’d need to break up, he said, ‘reckon now Malfoy has a chance.’ You know, he’s sharper than you’ve given him credit for. He must have picked up on something. Well…?” She paused, her small grin half-tease and half-challenge. “Will you?”

Draco didn’t need asking twice. Swiftly, he pulled her to her feet, flush up against his chest, and held her there. “I’ve been wanting to do this for weeks,” he said softly, dipping his head close to hers. Then he stopped, frowning quizzically. 

“Hang on! I gave you the first antidote last week.” 

She nodded, her hazel eyes dancing with barely suppressed laughter. “I know. Goyle told me.”

“I thought it failed so I tried again today. But… clearly it didn’t. That means… that means you’ve been faking it this whole past week! And Goyle’s been in on it! Why?”

Hermione grinned wickedly. “Payback is _such_ a bitch, isn’t it?” she sighed. “And I must admit, I did enjoy watching you squirm. All that jealous seething did wonders for my ego.”

Draco chuckled. He found that he liked this girl more and more.

Bending his head once again, he nuzzled her cheek gently and then tipped her head up, two fingers beneath her chin.

“May I?” he whispered.

Hermione smiled, twining her arms around his neck. The kiss lingered, tender and ineffably sweet– and for Draco, feeling like he could really breathe for the first time in a month, entirely worth the wait.

 

*

 

 

Later that evening… 

“One last question.” Draco’s voice broke the comfortable silence blanketing the room. The two of them were quietly reading, Hermione curled up in the armchair and Draco stretched out on the sofa. Two glasses of wine rested on the nearby table.

Hermione glanced up. “Hmm?”

“I’m just curious. Did you and Goyle ever… I mean, did the two of you…”

Hermione laughed and shook her head, then had a sip of her wine and returned to her book. 

Somehow, Draco would have to find a way of spreading that welcome bit of intelligence around as well. His ego was at stake, of course, but also a fair bit of cash. 

He’d placed a belated but rather substantial bet on Option A.


	5. Chapter 5

Epilogue

 

 

 

 

21 June  
Monday, early evening  
Midsummer Night

 

The spring term had come to an end the day before. On that bright and beautiful Sunday morning, students had streamed out of the castle, boarding carriages bound for Hogsmeade and the waiting Hogwarts Express.

All but two. The Head Boy and Head Girl had offered to stay behind for a few days, in order to carefully inspect all the dormitories, check for damages or items accidentally forgotten or any school property that might have gone missing. They would also write the necessary letters, should any problems arise. Headmistress McGonagall had been grateful for their offer, especially as it would save her a great deal of extra drudge work requiring an expenditure of time that could be put to much better use. She was of the opinion, furthermore, that the Heads really ought to take more responsibility for the student body. 

No doubt she would have been pleased to know that her outgoing Head Boy was in complete agreement with her. Well, as it concerned one student’s body, anyway. Specifically, the one he was currently gazing at with frank admiration.

His girlfriend of two months lay by his side in the verdant, flowery meadow, one arm flung up to shield her eyes from the setting sun. He could tell by the way her chest rose and fell that she’d fallen asleep. 

They had brought a blanket and a picnic supper with them, lovingly prepared and packed up in a pretty basket by Tinker, who had tended to them with a smug, rather Slytherin-worthy smile of satisfaction ever since late winter. Anybody who happened to ask would be told that it had been he who had brought the Head Boy and Head Girl together. He had taken extraordinary care of both of them the past several months, surpassing himself to make up for lost time in seeing to their every need. Surely it had been his lavish and meticulous attentions that had made them so happy, comfortable, and ultimately, receptive to each other. He liked to think so, anyway.

Beyond the meadow lay long stretches of woodland, the shadowy, cool forest floor below and a dense canopy of leaves and branches nearly blotting out the sky overhead. Now, the sun neared the horizon, a fiery globe drawing down the last of its light from gold-tinged clouds of mauve, peach, rose, and purple. High above, the first stars glinted in the deepening blue. And in the distance, tiny dots of light had begun to wink and glow against the backdrop of the darkening wood. 

They’d eaten their supper, enjoyed the better part of a bottle of wine, and were feeling pleasantly sated. Draco lay on his side, resting his cheek against the palm of one hand and gazing at Hermione as she dreamed. Leaning closer, he dropped a light kiss on her cheek, and she opened her eyes, smiling sleepily at him.

“You dozed off,” he told her, pulling a pout. “Should I be insulted?”

She laughed softly, and reaching up, slid a hand around the nape of his neck to draw him down for a quick kiss. “Only if you’re jealous of yourself.”

Draco raised an amused eyebrow. “Translation?”

“Well,” Hermione sighed, “if you must know, I was having rather a nice dream.”

“Was I in it?” Slipping an arm around her, he pulled her close and began playing with a lock of her hair. 

Hermione rolled her eyes, giving Draco a playful poke. “Conceited prat. What do you think? But you’ve spoilt it, see, by waking me up! Now I’ll never know how it would’ve ended.”

“Well,” he drawled, popping a grape into his mouth and another into hers. “Why don’t you tell me where you left off and we’ll see if we can’t work out the rest together? You know, act it out.”

“ _In somno veritas?_ ” 

“Something like that,” he agreed, with a sly little wink. “Come on. I’m game. Let’s hear it, Granger.”

“All right,” she agreed, straight-faced. “That could work. Well, in my dream, see, we were studying together.”

“Where?” Draco interrupted, one finger idly tracing light circles on the smooth flesh of her forearm.

“Oh! Right. We were in the sitting room. There was a nice fire going. It was all toasty and cosy, just the two of us.” Hermione rolled onto her side, stretching her arm out fully to give him better access. “And then you came and sat down next to me on the sofa. You smelled so good.”

“Did I?” he asked lazily, a half-smile quirking his lips.

“Yes, like… like… newly mown grass after it rains.”

“I’ve bottled that, y’know. For my own personal use. Essence of Soggy Grass. Drives women wild.” The finger tracing circles on Hermione’s arm had moved a bit higher now, joined by a second digit. They were now exploring her bare shoulder, toying with the spaghetti strap of her camisole.

Hermione giggled. “You’ve quite a talent for making potions that send women spare, haven’t you! Mmm… that feels good…” She sighed happily.

Draco bent his head, pressing light kisses to her shoulder. “What happened then?”

“Oh… well… we sat that way for a little while, and I could feel your thigh pressed against mine, and it made me feel all funny inside. Fluttery, you know? Nervous.” Shivering pleasurably, she moved a bit closer to him.

“In a good way, I hope,” he murmured, gently moving her hair aside and nuzzling the crook of her neck. “And then?”

“Mmm… uh… well, then you put your arm around me and you… you whispered my name into my ear.”

“You mean… like this… _Hermione…_ ” 

She could feel the warm sigh of his breath tickling her neck and then he was nipping at her ear lobe, tickling it with flicks of his tongue. “Yes,” she whispered. “Exactly like that. Mmm…”

“And what did you do? Something equally pleasurable, I hope?” He was leaving sweet, little kisses all along the column of her throat now, moving towards her jaw. 

By now, the feel of his soft lips and the warm exhalations of his breath were combining to render Hermione nearly incapable of coherent speech, but she soldiered on.

“Well, yes, I… turned my head and you were so close… I wanted to kiss you so badly! And then…”

“Yes? And then?” He could feel her tensing in anticipation. Smiling to himself, he pressed a delicate kiss to the corner of her mouth. 

“Then I woke up.”

“Oh!” Draco sat back, nonplussed for the moment, and then he grinned wolfishly. “Well, if I’m not mistaken, this dream sounds rather like our first time.”

She nodded, pleased that he remembered that April night.

“You know, I do believe I recall what happened next. Wasn’t it… something like…” He leaned in, taking her mouth in an ardent kiss. “And then…” A hand had made its way down to her chest, and now it slipped inside her camisole, cupping one breast and squeezing gently, his thumb brushing tantalisingly over the taut little nipple. Her small, ragged moan sent a current of excitement coursing through him, and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer. 

The thin straps of her cami had slipped down around her shoulders, and now, in one swift motion, he peeled the garment down to her waist, baring her breasts to his gaze. In the fading light of the sunset, her skin was tawny, the aroused nipples a dark, flushed peach hue. There was a sudden intake of breath, and he looked up at her face. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted slightly, and her breathing had become more erratic. Altogether, she was a feast for his senses, and he couldn’t wait another moment to partake.

Sweetness beyond measure, this girl was that and so much more. Eagerly, he lowered his head to her breasts, playfully rubbing his nose against them and then taking one into his mouth and suckling, his tongue curling around the nipple and teasing its sensitive flesh into a hard, little peak. He lavished attentions on one breast and then the other, one hand dropping to her bare thigh. Thank Merlin for short summer skirts, he thought, finding the hem of hers and slipping his hand beneath it. 

The skin of her thigh was almost unbearably soft, as higher and higher his hand travelled. He hoped she was wearing those virginal, little white cotton knickers he loved so much. Something about them… he wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, but they drove him wild. 

At last he was there, and from the feel of things, she was indeed wearing his underwear of choice, or something very like it. Not that she would be wearing them or anything else for much longer, he thought wickedly, opening buttons and then hooking his fingers in all her garments collectively, giving everything a healthy, downward tug. As he flung them onto the grass, he gave her knickers a belated glance and grinned.

The white ones. Very nice indeed. 

Hurriedly, his heart pounding with his own arousal, he stripped off his own clothing and threw it down beside hers.

Hermione opened her eyes, gazing up at him and smiling as he settled himself comfortably along the length of her body. Hooking her legs around his, she drew him as close as she could so that his swollen cock nestled between her thighs, teasing the tender, sensitive flesh of her most private parts. He had hardly begun to touch her, and already, she was pulsing inside, her desire growing as she anticipated the feel of him driving into her, filling her. 

Draco looked down at her, a wave of tenderness suddenly sweeping over him. This feeling was still so new, and the sheer force of it was a bit scary. It made him feel vulnerable in a way he hadn’t ever experienced or even imagined was possible before. That was scary as well. But he allowed it to carry him now, surrendering, and closed his eyes, burying his face in the softness and fragrance of her hair. His words were whispered, too new and fragile to be uttered aloud. But he could stop them coming no more than he could stop the dark falling on this shortest night of the year.

“I love you.”

And then, not waiting to see if she had heard, he kissed her, hard and insistent, trailing hungry, open-mouthed kisses down her body until he reached the juncture of her thighs. She was more than ready for him, he discovered, her passionate nature continuing to surprise and delight him. Before long, her rapturous cries echoed in the clear, early evening air of the meadow, rising to the skies like the primal calls of wild birds.

There would be time enough later for her to pleasure him more creatively, he assured her as she reached for him afterwards. 

“Reckon I can’t hold it much longer,” he admitted, a bit breathless and grinning crookedly. “See what you do to me, woman?”

Eyes dark with desire, Hermione laughed, twining her arms and legs around him and drawing him close. “Later then,” she said, her voice husky now, thrilling him. 

At last, he was inside her, and the sheer, exuberant surprise of their lovemaking – a raw, driving, almost insatiable hunger for each other that redefined the sense of completion, pushing it to ever newer heights with each coupling – overwhelmed him once again.

“Hermione,” he whispered, exhausted at last as she held him tightly, unwilling to let him move, wanting to keep him inside her just a little longer. He was nearly asleep, the two of them curled up as one, their bare limbs entwined, when he heard her words.

“I love you too.”

They slept then, and the magic of Midsummer came upon them unawares, casting its timeless spell. Clusters of woodland fairies ventured closer now, flitting over the flower-filled meadow, tiny, glowing balls of light winking brightly in the dark of the perfumed, summer night. They hovered, smiling, above the sleeping lovers, their fragile, translucent wings beating, and bestowed their blessings: protective showers of golden fairy dust and the promise of two hearts eased and resting in each other’s safekeeping.

 

 

 

 

  
_Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms…  
So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle  
Gently entwist; the female ivy so  
Enrings the barky fingers of the elm.  
O, how I love thee!_   


 

 

 

 

  
[ ](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view%C2%A4t=51Mwl8hI8hL_SL500_AA300_.jpg) [ ](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view%C2%A4t=51w91yMy5SL_SL500_AA300_.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view%C2%A4t=stock-photo-violet-tricolor-30829615-1.jpg)

 

 

 

  
[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=Oberon_and_Titania__A_Midsummer_Night_s_Dream__Act_II__Scene_I__by_William_Shakespeare_.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=EdwardRobertHughes-MidSummerEve-B.jpg)  
“Oberon and Titania,” by Francis Danby (left); “A Midsummer’s Eve,” by Edward Robert Hughes (right)

 

 

 

 

 

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Viola Tricolour, or Heart’s Ease, also known as Love-in-Idleness, has a fascinating history, both literary and medicinal.
> 
> “ _ **Viola tricolor**_ , known as **Hearts-ease** , is a common European wild flower, growing as an annual or short-lived perennial. It has been introduced into North America, where it has spread widely, and is known as the Johnny Jump Up (though this name is also applied to similar species such as the Yellow Pansy). It is the progenitor of the cultivated Pansy, and is therefore sometimes called Wild Pansy; before the cultivated Pansies were developed, 'Pansy' was an alternative name for the wild form.” (Wikipedia)
> 
> Read more here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Viola_tricolor
> 
>    
>  _In somno veritas_ : “In sleep, there is truth.”
> 
>  
> 
> The passages I used from “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” are from the following sections of the play:
> 
>  
> 
> Fetch me that flower; the herb I shew'd thee once:  
> The juice of it on sleeping eye-lids laid  
> Will make or man or woman madly dote  
> Upon the next live creature that it sees.
> 
> And with the juice of this I'll streak her eyes,  
> And make her full of hateful fantasies.  
> Act II, Scene I
> 
>  
> 
> What thou seest when thou dost wake,  
> Do it for thy true-love take,  
> Love and languish for his sake:  
> In thy eye that shall appear  
> When thou wakest, it is thy dear:  
> Wake when some vile thing is near.  
> Act II, Scene II
> 
>  
> 
> Mine ear is much enamour'd of thy note;  
> So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape;  
> And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me  
> On the first view to say, to swear, I love thee.  
> Act III, Scene I
> 
>  
> 
> Be as thou wast wont to be;  
> See as thou wast wont to see…  
> Act IV, Scene I
> 
>  
> 
> Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms…  
> So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle  
> Gently entwist; the female ivy so  
> Enrings the barky fingers of the elm.  
> O, how I love thee!  
> Act IV, Scene I


End file.
